


Sluagh

by Thanfiction



Series: Daydverse [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Celtic Mythology & Folklore, DAYDverse, Gen, Magical Realism, Multi, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Sequel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-08
Updated: 2013-04-08
Packaged: 2017-12-07 22:01:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 28
Words: 210,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/753566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thanfiction/pseuds/Thanfiction
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>5 years after the events of "Dumbledore's Army and the Year of Darkness," Neville has agreed to become an Auror, but he never expected to be asked to hunt down an old friend...or the nightmare into which that would lead.  The second novel in the Daydverse Trilogy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Home Soil

**WARNINGS AND INTRODUCTION:**

This novel is a continuation of the D.A. universe, and although it is possible to read it without having read "Dumbledore's Army and the Year of Darkness," I strongly suggest that you do so, as you will otherwise be missing out on a great deal, and certain parts might not make sense at all. Be that said, however,  **this is a much darker, more mature story** , and will contain some things both personal and political that may upset some people. You will find very grown-up themes, extremely offensive and hard language, racial, religious, and ethnic slurs, extreme graphic violence, character death, rape, dismemberment, cannibalism, and moderately graphic sexuality of both the heterosexual and same-sex variety. You will also be getting a crash course in Irish politics and Celtic mythology.

 **This is not your usual Harry Potter fanfiction.**  If you're okay with this, I can also promise you one heck of a ride, with some equally powerful themes of love, redemption, friendship, loyalty, and faith. The children of the D.A. are children no longer, and this is not a childrens story in any way, but I think it is a good one nonetheless.

Chapter One

**Home Soil**

"If this sort of thing is going to keep happening, love, they need to start issuing you boys helmets," Hannah pulled back her hand, letting Neville's hair fall over the pink line of the newly-healed gash on his forehead. It would fade soon - the Healers had done their work well, and it wouldn't even scar - but he knew that was the least of his new wife's worries. He took her hand, smiling gently as he kissed the tips of her fingers.

"It was just a piece of shrapnel. I ducked the curse itself fine. But it's part of the job. Death Eaters that got away once don't generally like to be taken in to Azkaban, especially if they've been there before. I don't fuss over the little scalds and scrapes you get working the  _Cauldron_  since your Gramps died."

Hannah snorted derisively, yanking her hand away and swatting him reproachfully on the chest. "Oh, you do too!"

"Okay," he chuckled, "so maybe I do. But that's only because I love you." Neville reached out, pulling her into his arms as he nuzzled the side of her neck with his lips. "And I know that's why you fuss over me. I'm just so glad you're this understanding about things. Not everyone's so lucky. Lee goes through girlfriends like Ron through breakfast."

"I don't like it, but you made a promise, Neville, and I respect that." He could hear the careful tone to her voice, and he knew that she was trying to skirt the argument that they had already been over too many times.

He squeezed her gently, turning her to look directly into the green eyes he loved so much. "It's only three more years. Then they'll have more people who  _want_ to do this, and they'll be able to let me and Ron and a bunch of the other ones go who just agreed to play stopgap after the veterans had been pretty much wiped out."

"And then no more waiting up? No more dark wizards?" Her fingers skimmed over his forehead again. "No more wondering if I'm going to get you back in one piece every day? No more 'sorry, Hannah, that's Need-To-Know'?"

"None of it." He nodded firmly. "We'll take a real honeymoon, start a family, maybe fix up that summer cottage you wanted, and I swear I won't touch anything dangerous that doesn't have leaves for the rest of my life."

One blonde eyebrow raised skeptically. "And yet you say you want to have children."

Neville cocked his head, "What does that have to do with anything?"

"Clearly," she laughed, "you have never dealt with a toddler, dear." Her hands went to the sides of his face, covering the scars that still crossed diagonally across his cheeks as she pulled him down for a kiss. "They're much worse than Death Eaters."

He returned the kiss, sliding his fingers through her hair and wrapping his other hand around her waist to pull her closely to him, but she knew him too well, and despite the genuine desire with which his mouth sought hers, she broke it within only a few seconds, her forehead creasing in suspicion. "Neville, you're holding out on me."

He tried to muster a look of surprise he didn't truly feel. "Why would you say that?"

"I can sense it. You're a crap liar, you always have been, and you didn't even pretend that you like this job...didn't feed me any of your usual lines about being proud to follow in your father's footsteps or anything." Her eyes narrowed, her arms folded tightly across his chest. "Did something else happen at work today? Was there - oh, what's the little euphemism the Ministry uses - 'collateral damage' on that arrest?"

Neville let out a deep sigh, pulling out a chair at the little table in the small flat they shared above the pub and sitting down, all casual pretense dropped as he allowed his shoulders to slump forward, his fingers running through his hair. "No. No collateral damage. But you're right, yeah, there is something." He looked up with a tight, sheepish smile. "Mind if I dip into inventory a bit?"

The worried look on her face deepened, and she sat across from him, taking his hand in both of hers. "If you want a drink to tell me about it, it can't be good. Did someone --"

"No." Neville shook his head quickly. "No one died. No one even got hurt worse than scratches - at least, no one on our side. I've just..." he hesitated, the words coming with greater difficulty than he had expected now that he actually had to talk about it. He hadn't yet. Not since coming out of Kingsley's office, and that had only been 'yes, Minister,' and 'at once, Minister' and refusing to let it sink in. Now, he discovered, it had sunk. He licked his suddenly-dry lips. "Hannah, I've got a mission. It'll mean going away for a while, I don't know how long. They've got a vigilante on the loose."

"A vigilante?" Her voice was guarded, waiting for the other spell to cast, and he nodded.

"In Ireland. People have been disappearing. Sometimes they're found again, sometimes they're not. When they're found, it's not pretty. The bloke who's doing it is calling himself 'Sluagh', which is an Irish word for an avenging spirit." He twisted his wand in his hands, staring down at the smoothly polished cherry to avoid her gaze. "Muggle government's all involved, because he's hitting both wizards and Muggles and they thought for a while it was part of their own problems, but both sides have been screaming bloody murder that it's the other, and we've got reason to believe it's a wizard who's doing it."

There was a long pause, and then her reply was a soft groan as her golden head dropped forward into her own palms. "Oh, Merlin... _Seamus."_

"That's why they want me to do it. They think someone that knew him..."

"But you don't know him!" Her eyes flashed as she looked up, and he saw reflected in them some of the hurt that they had all felt when their former friend and comrade had first vanished from their tight and treasured knot of the D.A.'s survivors. "None of us know him any more, Neville! We haven't known him since he didn't show up for the victory party, for babies, for weddings...for  _anything!_  And if he's doing this, he's changed even more." She shook her head fiercely. "You can't go! He was one of us, he knows --"

"Exactly. He knows every dirty spell and nasty little trick we learned trying to survive that year. And that's how he's been ducking the Republic's Aurors and the Muggle police and two others they sent before me. Besides --" he tried to force a light-hearted conviction to the statement, "Ducking out on bad memories is one thing, but he'd never --"

"Become a murderer? Turn his back on his friends?"

Neville's chin thrust out with a stubborn certainty he didn't truly feel. "He'd never hurt me."

She was silent for a long time, then Hannah stood, circling around at the table to kneel between his legs, her arms around his waist as she rested her head against his chest. "Don't say 'never'. We've all lived through too much that would 'never' happen. I just want you to promise me that you'll take care of yourself, and that you won't let a friendship that may be long gone take away everything you do have."

His eyes closed, and it felt as though she had struck him, the breath tight in his throat. What she was saying, what she was implying was nothing that he didn't already hate to know, and yet...

Slowly, he nodded, and he hated the voice of the Auror, the Commander, the soldier who spoke and fought and had far, far more hold over his life than he had ever imagined or wanted, but that he couldn't walk away from, hadn't been able to walk away from since fifth year. The nightmares had walked through laws and stone cell walls to escape into reality then, and there was no allowing for dreams until they had all been returned. So he did what he had to do, not what he wanted to do, and even in this, there was really no question. "If it comes to it, no, I won't pull the hexes. It's my job to run him down."

"Maybe it won't even be him," she offered thinly. "Maybe they're wrong. He's not the only wizard up there with a reason to be angry."

A dark, humorless laugh rattled his throat. "Maybe. But you're right, you know. It's not him. The only question, I guess, is whether it's Seamus Finnigan."

OOO

Neville was frustrated. He had expected to be stonewalled, warned of Mrs. Finnigan's absolute refusal to even allow previous attempted questioners into her home. So far, she had turned away both Aurors sent by the Ministry of Magic, as well as the Irish Republican Auror Division, and Muggle police from both Belfast and Scotland Yard, according to whose file she had even claimed not to speak English, and simply offered a stream of obscenity-laced obstinance when a Gaelic interpreter was finally summoned. Resistance, had therefore, been something he was completely prepared for, but to his surprise, she had welcomed him inside like a long-lost family member when he had arrived at her door.

He should have known it wouldn't be that easy. Kate Finnigan looked nothing like her son: a plump woman with dark hair and sharp green eyes, her skin was a ruddy-cheeked porcelain, devoid of the freckles that scattered every inch of Seamus' face and body, her features sturdy where his were almost dainty, but his mouth was hers, and so, very clearly, was his stubbornness.

For three hours now, he had listened to her lilting sing-song voice as she had gone on about the war against Riddle, the war in her own country which she simply called "The Troubles", her family, and her son. She had praised what he had done with the D.A., told him how much the resistance had meant to all of them, and insisted on feeding him, whipping up a delicious lamb stew in a thick, richly flavored gravy and cutting broad slices off a loaf of oat bread so fresh that the crust unleashed clouds of fragrant steam when she broke the crisp surface with her knife. He had heard about Seamus' childhood, about Ireland's win at the Quidditch World Cup, and about how they had been having an inordinate amount of rain that year, but that just drove down the tourists and wasn't, really, that a lovely thing overall, because they didn't understand that she lived in a _country_ , old and proud and independent, not a quaint attraction built for their amusement.

She talked, really, an astonishing amount, freely and easily. But she did not give him a single bit of actual information.

Neville knew that he wasn't skilled at the kind of interrogation they taught in Auror training. Despite being tall and broad-shouldered, there was an innate kindness and empathy for others that showed even through his battle-scarred face, and he had never managed to come across as particularly intimidating unless he was on the edge of losing his temper. And then people didn't talk, because then he was  _very_ intimidating, and they tended to either employ their feet or their wands rather than their mouths.

Yet he had always been good at getting information out of people nonetheless. He was an excellent listener, good at making people feel valued, and he could patiently work a frightened witness all day until their fears eased enough and they felt him enough of a friend to tell him what he needed. Mrs. Finnigan, however, was proving a far more difficult spell to cast.

She wasn't frightened, she wasn't defensive, she wasn't refusing to talk…she was simply refusing to  _help_ , but not in any way he could call her on. With a deep sigh, he drained the last of his tea, then tipped it in his hands, musing over the brightly-painted little cup. Perhaps he could play her game. His voice was light, casual as he spoke. "This is Muggle work, isn't it, Kate? This tea-set?"

As he had hoped, she paused a moment, clearly surprised that he had stopped trying to ask questions about Seamus, and he saw a brief twinkle of triumph in her eyes before she nodded. "From me husband's family, such a sweet little set, do ya fancy it?"

He nodded, brushing a fingertip over the green leaves that swirled around the rim of the china. "It's well-done. A lot of the artwork you see passed off as shamrocks are actually depictions of clover, even here, but it's a completely different plant, and this is the real thing." Neville paused, giving her a slightly sheepish smile. "Plants are my real love. I'm only in the Auror Division for a few years as a favor to the Minister. They had a lot more Death Eaters on the loose than they did surviving Aurors, so they recruited a lot of us older ones to fill in the gaps. But my heart's not really in it, if you want the truth. I mean, a proper Auror would have had you on the record and drilled you this afternoon, and here I am thinking that those peas in the stew must have been locally grown, and wondering how it was done so early in the season."

Kate laughed, her smile more genuine now than he had seen it since he arrived, and she gave him an almost conspiratorial look as she turned to the kitchen door. "Ah, there's the lad me Seamus talked on, there. And you're not wrong once so far. Come, then…peas're from me own back garden, and I'll be happy enough show ya how twere done, though I can't reckon how ya knew."

"Peat," he answered quickly, getting to his feet and brushing the crumbs from his robes. "Lends a distinctive taste to things, but fades quickly from fresh vegetables. So they must have been picked today or maybe yesterday at the absolute most. It's wonderful soil, nothing but compost, even if it is a bit acid. But you've got the underlying limestone that combats that, and all the rain, but still good sun, and the peat holds the water while you still get good drainage…it's no surprise everything's so green up here. You really couldn't ask for better."

The back garden she brought them to was small but tidy, taking advantage of every inch of space in the cramped yard with pots and trellises, already surprisingly lush for barely the first week of April. Neville's face beamed in genuine enthusiasm as he skimmed his fingers over the shimmer that appeared when his hand neared the peas that climbed across the latticework against the back fence. "Oh, of course! I can't believe I never thought of it! Just a  _Protego,_ but it keeps off the frost, cuts the wind…it's like a little hothouse, but still lets enough chill through not to – it's brilliant!"

He turned, making no effort to hide his love for growing things as he scampered boyishly from one container to the next, rattling off names both common and scientific, exclaiming over the cleverer little tricks he noticed, and offering his own advice here and there. Containers, he pointed out, were rather prone to having the soil depress more heavily towards the center and pool water at the base of plants, leaving them vulnerable to rot, but piling a little more gravel in the middle at the bottom when you potted took care of that, and you could keep the ties from cutting into your climbers with an Automatic Expansion Charm.

"My Gran," he chuckled, on his knees beside a row of carrots whose delicate, lacy leaves were just unfolding brightly above the dark, rich loam, "still teases me sometimes that the worst part of never knowing if I were alive or dead from day to day during that year was that she didn't know if she'd have to hire a gardener to deal with the arboretum I'd made out of her house. I live with my wife now, of course, but I still go back pretty often. She's good with plants too, but she's kind of getting on, and there's a lot of manual labor where having a young wizard around is useful."

"Aye," she nodded, "I might ask ya to move a few of these half-barrels meself before ya go. Seamus never says a word about when he's comin' back, and –" She cut off, her hand flying abruptly to her mouth as her cheeks fell ghastly, suddenly pale.

Neville's eyes did not flinch from hers, but his tone remained gentle. "I knew you'd been hearing from him, Kate."

The flush returned brightly as her eyes snapped defiance, her chin raising. "Oh, really?"

"You love Seamus. That much is obvious, even if I hadn't known him, even if he didn't have a reputation for seven years as the biggest mama's boy in Gryffindor. If you honestly hadn't heard anything,  _anything_  from him in years…you wouldn't be trying to get rid of us. You'd be breaking down the door of every authority from here to Wales trying to find him." He reached out gently, wiping the dirt from his palm on the leg of his trousers before he lay his hand on her shoulder. "They've had you under surveillance for more than a year now, been watching your –"

Neville stopped, closing his eyes as the simple truth dawned on him. It was so easy, so obvious, he felt like an idiot for not having considered it sooner. "Kate, don't make me search your house for that Galleon."

There was a long, silence, then when she spoke again, her voice was low, hoarse and harsh. "I 'spose ya think you're a right clever little Toff, don't ya? Had me thinkin' there were a decent person under that shiny badge, but you're just another Copper, ain't ya? Want to be seein' me lad in Azkaban like the rest o' them."

He shook his head quickly, fiercely, and the intensity in his eyes was genuine as he squeezed the shoulder that was tense under his hand. "No! Seamus wasn't just one of my Lieutenants in the D.A., I  _care_ about him…if he's the one that's been doing this, there's something very, very wrong, and I want to help him, not just catch him."

Her laugh was one of the bitterest sounds he had ever heard. "Oh, there's somethin' wrong, aye. Ain't been a blessed thing  _right_ with him since he came back from the war, if ya can call it comin' back."

His hand slid down her arm to clasp hers in both of his. It was shaking, and she was staring at the gravel path beneath their feet, refusing to meet his eyes. "What happened to my friend?" Neville asked quietly.

Kate's answer came in a thin whisper, barely audible, but it carried to Neville's ears as clearly as a shout. "It broke him, it did. Just destroyed him. He weren't never a coward, he weren't – loved a good fight, little brawler since he were knee-high – but there were a heart to that boy as big and gentle as ya could ever want. He'd come home all bloody-nosed and beamin' about it like the sun itself, but he'd cry himself sick if he saw a wee bird lyin' dead on the sidewalk. Seamus were ready to die for ya without a moment's fear, but whatever he saw that night were things he couldn't…."

She trailed off in a little sob, and he nodded, biting his lip at the memories of hours that had been years and that years hadn't eased the pain of. "We lost a lot of friends."

"Ya lost him too, whether he were breathin' after or not," she spat. Tears fell from her still-downturned face to splatter against their joined hands, but she made no move to wipe them away. "He wouldn't even open the door to his old room. Told me I could burn it all, he did. Set himself in the cellar like a squatter, livin' on a cot in the corner and didn't see a day sober for near two years."

"Did you –?"

"'Course I did!" Her eyes snapped up now, blazing fury through the tears. "I did all I could! Talked to him, begged him, tried to reason with him…sent half the bloody family, two o' them blasted head-shrinkers, and even a priest down them stairs, and every one 'o them came back hexed and useless if they could even get the door open at all." She paused, taking a deep, shuddering breath, and her face dropped again, the fury turned inward again. "Shoulda done more, though. I failed him in the end, oh, I did."

Neville shook his head, "It's not your fault, Kate, if he wouldn't take help."

"Ah, but it is." There was an awful, quiet agony in every breath of the confession. "I got fed up with it. Two years, and him showin' no signs o' nothin' changin'…it were his twentieth birthday, and I could just see the boy's whole life vanishin' away from me. It were me own fault. Gave him an ultimatum. Told him he had to get off his bleedin' arse and do somethin', or I'd be turnin' him out."

"But that was fair," he protested. "It was the right thing to do. You'd tried everything else. It wouldn't have been really loving him to just let him keep doing that to himself forever…you had to try something drastic to get things to change."

"Well, they changed," she said darkly. "Next mornin', I rise to find the door open and Seamus gone, and on the table there were the Galleon and a note sayin' he were grateful, that he knew what needed doin' now. It's gone off once a day since, tellin' me he's alive, that he loves me, that I ain't to worry, but that's all, and a fair joke that last is. Ain't been a thought 'cept worryin' of him for 'most three years full since I done seen so much as a freckle o' me own and only."

Her chuckle was high, tight, almost manic. "Runs in the blood, maybe it does. Patrick didn't even leave a note, he didn't. Just gone like mornin' mist day after I told him the reason his boy were makin' biscuits float off top shelf were that his Mam were a witch. Father to son, ain't it the way?"

A knot of anger had formed in his chest for the amount of pain Seamus had so clearly put his mother through, and he choked it back, forcing his voice to remain kind and soft. "And you haven't heard anything else? Just the same message every day? Maybe a friend's seen him, someone in the family…is there anything you could –"

"No, and not that I would!" The pain was gone now, replaced by the fierce defiance he had first seen when he had caught her on the Galleon. "He's  _hurtin',_ ya bastard! Whatever he done, he ain't no criminal, and ya can take me off to Azkaban happy enough before I'd do a damned thing to see my baby landed there! An' if he's the Sluagh, then ya should be givin' him a medal, not a cell, and that's bald truth! The  _government,_ the  _law,_ " the words were curses, "ain't  _shite_ , and ain't been me whole life. Put trust to them, and we gets rewarded with Bloody Sundays and Dark Lords and children's names wrote in cold marble on a monument at what should never o' been a battlefield!"

"Mrs. Finnigan," the bitterness he usually hid deep showed now, and he lifted one hand to unbutton the collar of his shirt beneath the Auror's robes and pull it open enough to show the white lines of the scars that still curled over his shoulder. "I haven't had the best results with trusting authority myself. I know  _exactly_ how bad the Ministry failed us. You know I'm the one that led that rebellion, and I understand if you can't forgive me for it after what it's wound up costing you, but I feel responsible if it's done this to him, and I give you my word I'm not going after him as an Auror, but as his old Commander, and as a friend."

Her brow creased in suspicious surprise. "Then ya won't be turnin' him in should ya find him?"

Neville hesitated, drawing a deep breath before he answered honestly. "I'd have to turn him in…but it's better that way!" He continued quickly over her harsh snort of disgust. "They're not just going to let this go! They're going to keep sending people and sending people, and eventually, he  _will_  be caught."

His hand went to his pocket, and he withdrew a piece of officially-sealed parchment, holding it out to her like something dirty. "They gave me permission to use deadly force if I had to. The next step is going to be outright sending Ministry Hit-Wizards after him. This is  _serious_ , Kate. I'm the best chance he's got left."

Her arms folded stubbornly across her chest. "Better he be killed clean and quick than Azkaban, if that's what we're comin' to."

"But maybe if I could get him to listen, get him to come quietly, I could convince them that it's just as you said – that he's hurting, that there's something wrong with his mind, _something_. Maybe I could get him sent to St. Mungo's instead of Azkaban…" he hesitated, swallowing hard, and his eyes closed as he was almost unable to believe what he heard himself promise. "And if it was going to come to life in Azkaban, if there was absolutely no hope, I'd make sure that he was killed cleanly 'trying to escape.'"

The green eyes showed a new, wary respect. "You'd swear to that?"

"I swear."

"Then you'll have my help, such as it is, though what I've told ya be all there is, and that's truth." She grabbed his chin in her hand with shocking strength, and her green eyes stabbed into his from only inches away, her warning the feral growl of a mother's protection, more dangerous than any wild beast. "But if you've lied to me, lad, if ya betray me son, your last hours'll be spent wishin' you'd never been born to this cold world."

OOO

"You're goin' to listen to me, and you're goin' to listen well. I've been put with two of ya lot already, and I don't care two Knuts what ya are in darlin' England. You're an outsider here, just another bleedin' Peeler, and on Draoidheil Road, the sun don't shine out o' Harry Potter's arse, and I don't see no glimmer from yours, neither. That lovely Order o' Merlin stinks to high heaven o' the Crown here, so you're gonna keep your big Brit mouth shut and let us deal with our own problems, do ya follow me?" The bullish Auror crossed his arms tightly over his barrel-like chest, his chin thrust out belligerently, but Neville met the blue eyes unflinchingly.

"I follow you, Callahan, but you're going to follow me, now," he replied coolly. "We're on this one  _together_ , whether you like it or not, and if you could deal with your own problems, I wouldn't be here. Have you sealed off the scene?"

"Believe it or not, Johnny Bull, we know a few things about dealin' with crimes in South Belfast," Callahan replied caustically as they began to make their way down the rutted cobblestone of the narrow alley.

To either side, the red brick of the two-story tenements was crumbling and stained, streaked heavily with overlapping graffiti that proclaimed nearly a hundred years of tensions and divided loyalties in the ramshackle neighborhood. Despite the confidence he tried to show his partner, Neville had not needed the other Auror to tell him he was unwelcome, and the uniform he usually felt so proud of made him feel uneasily targeted as he noted the number of suspicious and even downright hateful looks it drew.

A middle-aged wizard with a deeply scarred face made an obscene gesture with his wand from an upper window, and Callahan laughed as he saw it, tossing a salute back at the man. "How's the day doin' for ya, O'Rourke?"

"Not so well's since I seen ya bringin' the likes o' him down our way," came the answer, and Callahan snorted his agreement.

"Aye, but there's been another o' the Sluagh's little donnybrooks down by the Black Banshee, and he thinks he'll be able to tell us somethin' we don't already know."

"Ya can tell him he ain't gonna get no help from us!" O'Rourke shouted. "Whoever he is, he's the best thing since Wolfe Tone, and doncha be fearin' quote me on that. Not a soul he's sent to the next world ain't deserved it ten times o'er." With a gob of thick, frothy spit unleashed in Neville's direction, the window slammed shut again, and he turned to Callahan.

"So he's become a folk hero, then?" he said. "Why didn't you include this in your report? It's something I've got to take into consideration when I'm talking to witnesses."

"Because it ain't none o' your business, and ya won't be talkin' to no witnesses, neither, Johnny Bull." Callahan retorted curtly. "Ya don't know how things are here."

"I think I'm beginning to get the picture." Neville looked along the narrow alley, seeing the sign ahead of the dark-robed, wild-haired woman who marked the entrance to the Black Banshee. He stopped just outside, reaching out to grab Callahan by one thick shoulder and turn the smaller man to face him.

"Now it's  _your_ turn to listen, and listen well before we go in there. I'm not Johnny Bull, a Peeler, a Brit, or whatever else you've got ready to call me. I'm trying to be professional here, rather than calling you a thick-headed Paddy, a stubborn Mick, a dragon's arse, or anything else you would richly deserve. The Minister has put me in charge of this investigation, and that means  _you_ are here to help  _me._ You say I don't know what's going on, that means you're going to brief me, and by the time we go to bed tonight, I'm going to be able to recite the grievances of every wizard in South Belfast backwards to the tune of God Save the Queen  _and_  the Soldier's Song, do you understand?"

There was a long, dangerous pause, then Callahan's dark, curly head tilted back, and his mouth fell open in a roar of laughter that brought startled looks from every witch and wizard within earshot. Neville forced himself not to react, rather holding his ground and waiting until the mirth had subsided and Callahan raised his arm to plunk one meaty hand jovially on the taller man's shoulder. "Neville, me darlin'," he grinned, "I think I might be able to stand ya after all."

OOO

Neville was exhausted by the time he sprinkled the handful of shimmering powder into the fireplace of his room at the small inn on Donagall Road, but he shook his head as the flames turned emerald green, smoothing back his hair and composing his features into steady professionality as the smooth, dark head of Kingsley Shacklebolt appeared. He gave a respectful little nod, folding his hands neatly behind his back. "Minister."

Shacklebolt's own nod was perfunctory, his deep voice gravely all-business. "I hear you had another one today, Longbottom?"

"Yes sir," he acknowledged ruefully. "It happened while I was at Mrs. Finnigan's, I'm afraid. But Callahan and I had a chance to get to the scene within the hour, and the local authorities had handled things well up to then. The body hadn't been touched." He grimaced, "It was fairly obvious there was no point in trying to take him to hospital."

"Same as the others?"

"In a lot of ways," Neville agreed, pulling the thick sheet of notes from the pocket of his robes and scanning through them. "Actual cause of death was a single knife wound to the left ventricle of the heart, eight-inch blade, single edge, inch and a half wide, but the poor bloke was probably grateful by that point. Approximately fifty pre-mortum incisions of various depths and lengths over the arms, legs, and torso, carefully avoiding major arteries. I say approximately, because there was a lot of overlap and we can't really be sure. Complete flaying of the interior left forearm, with the removed section of the dermis and accompanying Dark Mark found in the victim's stomach, undigested, but bearing evidence of mastication. Victim's wand had been snapped in half, both pieces were located in the rectal cavity, with evidence that would indicate forcible pre-mortum insertion.  _Sluagh_ burned into the forehead. No defensive wounds or evidence of resistance, no head trauma, no ligature, no potions or toxins and a relatively low amount of alcohol in the blood. Which means we can be pretty sure of a Body-Bind."

Shacklebolt had been taking notes of his own throughout, though Neville had already sent his copies by owl, and despite the horrific nature of the murder, the older wizard's face was as composed as if he had been reading the investment columns of the  _Daily Prophet._ "So the most significant deviation from previous victims would be the timing of the attack. How specifically can we pinpoint it?"

"Within ten minutes, give or take, sir." He checked his notes again. "The barkeep saw him leaving with a gentleman in a gray cloak and hood at just before three, and at quarter to four, when he went to tip out the rubbish in preparation for the evening rush, the victim was extremely recently deceased. Footprints led from the victim's body to a location some eleven feet away, where they show rotation consistent with Disapparition. Time of death has been placed at around half three, based on coagulation of the spilled blood and victim's body temperature. He worked quickly. Broad daylight, and there had to be Silencing Spells, even with a Body-Bind, because there's a very well-traveled street not fifteen paces away from the site of the murder."

"He's getting cocky with us." Shacklebolt sounded as though this were a personal offense. "All the others have been under cover of darkness, the victims were in much more secluded locations. And no witnesses?"

"Not a one," Neville sighed deeply, allowing some of the tiredness to show now as he pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger, rubbing at the headache that had deeply entrenched itself behind his eyes. "At least, sir, not a one that's willing to say anything. But the moment I started asking around, there was an amazing epidemic of blindness and deafness among the locals."

"What about the barkeep? What can he give us about the man in the gray cloak?"

"Just that, sir. A man in a gray cloak. Only he said it also might have been blue, green, black, or dirty white. And the gentleman could have been somewhere between my height and Callahan's, which gives us somewhere in the neighborhood of between five foot seven and six foot one." He couldn't entirely hide the sarcasm as he went on. "Couldn't even guess at build, never saw a face, hands, or hair, yet served him drinks for three hours before without bothering to collect a Knut. Incredible, really. And he hadn't even been Obliviated."

"Astonishing," Shacklebolt agreed dryly. "So all that gives us is that he was waiting for his victim, and what you're really saying is that our friend is being deliberately protected."

"That's putting it mildly." Neville nodded, "the locals think he's a proper hero. That's something else that I spent a lot of time with Callahan on today, and it does give us another link to the murders besides modus."

"Oh?" One dark eyebrow raised in new interest. "Go on, Longbottom."

"Yes, Minister. It's been confusing us why the murders are scattered between Muggle and wizarding areas, and why the Muggle victims appear to be random, but they  _aren't_. We already know the wizards and witches have all been involved with the Dark Arts – outright Death Eaters or at least sympathizers and informants – but the Muggles were all in what they call their "Troubles" up to their proverbial ears. Both sides, but every one of them were real pieces of work; arms dealers, assassins, thugs…not the sort of blokes I'd want my daughter bringing home."

"And this is what's endearing him to the citizens."

"Absolutely. Callahan tells me that everywhere he's hit has been places not just in Belfast, but the other cities – Dublin, Bangor, Lisburn, Newry, Ballymena, Carrickfergus, Londonderry – where the local authorities have pretty much given up hope. Real nasty areas where rule of law is taken completely as a joke, and they like the Ministry about as well as they like the Crown or the Republican government, which would be about as well as a nice case of Dragon Pox. I got spit on twice and learned about fifty new words for 'British' and 'Auror,' none of which were really flattering."

He hesitated, shuffling his feet on the carpet before he continued, unable to meet Shacklebolt's eyes. "Can't say I completely blame them, sir. The area where the attack before this one happened – they call it the Village – it's awful. Not fit for rats to live in. Saw a kid with a knife there who couldn't have been more than eight years old. You and I've both been in resistance movements ourselves, and I know what it's like when you can't trust –"

"That was war, Longbottom," Shacklebolt interrupted firmly. "We've been at peace now for five years, and so have they. It is one thing to act independently when there is a government that is denying basic rights and liberties, where due process has been corrupted and there is no justice to be had, but to do so when there is a fair – if imperfect – government in place is nothing more than vigilantism, and that is dangerously close to anarchy."

"Yes, sir," Neville sighed. "I just don't like it. Especially if it  _is_ him."

"What came of your discussion with Mrs. Finnigan? Would she speak to you?"

"She spoke to me…." He paused, unsure how much he should admit, then decided impulsively that it would be best to keep the details to himself for now. After what he had seen that day, the loyalties which had already been conflicted about his former friend were even more tangled, and he needed some time to sort things out more carefully. He could always have drawn more from her later. "But she didn't give me much. Talked about what he'd been like as a kid, but she didn't want to say anything about what happened since the war." It was true enough.

The black eyes narrowed. "What do your instincts tell you?"

"That it's Finnigan," he admitted. "I wouldn't stake my wand on it, but…" he spread his hands reluctantly. "He's too good. The things he's gotten away with, it's obvious the Sluagh is well-trained, that he's not just someone with a grudge, but they don't have any Aurors who don't have strong alibis for at least a good number of the attacks. And he's got enough of a hot streak that the brutality, as wrong as it seems, isn't entirely implausible. Besides, he told me years ago that he had as much of a problem with the Troubles as with the Death Eaters, so that fits too."

"Have you tried any other known associates yet?"

Neville couldn't keep himself from laughing outright at this. "Sir, if you want associates, I'd recommend half the populations of at least seven counties.  _Anyone_ could be helping him, and they're not just closed-lipped, they've got their own bloody  _language_  when they don't want me knowing what's going on. Believe me, I heard enough of it today."

There was a resigned nod of understanding, and Neville was grateful that the Minister had once been an Auror himself. At least he knew what it was like dealing with difficult witnesses and didn't expect miracles where they couldn't be given. "Well, we have at least one," he said finally.

The younger wizard's eyebrows raised in surprise. "You –"

"They caught him in Craigavon this morning; he was trying to fence some items that had been missing from last week's victim, and he cracked under interrogation."

Neville leaned forward eagerly, so close to the green flames that he could feel their warm tickle against his face. "What'd he give us?"

"Rumor, really." Shacklebolt disappeared a moment, then appeared again with a sheet of parchment in his hand and a pair of reading glasses perched incongruously on the broad nose. "Gentleman by the name of David Rooney. Swore under Veritaserum that he had no knowledge of the Sluagh's identity, but that he'd followed rumor to the victim just in time to arrive moments after the murder. Heard the Disapparition, as a matter of fact. He also gave us some information that might help block the jinx on the next one."

"Just give me the name, sir," Neville responded quickly, "I'll get him – or her – under watch immediately."

"That's the difficulty, Mr. Longbottom," Shacklebolt frowned, "it seems we have shadows chasing shadows."

"I don't understand."

"The Sluagh's greater target is said to be a wizard known as  _Diabhal Dubh_ , and the current attacks are just means of warming up and cutting down on his followers. The name is an obvious pseudonym, just like the Sluagh himself, however, the existence of this wizard has never been confirmed. It may be a literal individual, or it may simply refer to the Dark Arts movement in Ireland, or even be a 'bogeyman' figure that is attributed to any unexplained dark magic." Shacklebolt shrugged, setting the parchment down again. "We simply don't know, and what you've told me complicates things further, because if the Sluagh is being seen as a folk hero, this may just be rumor trying to provide him a suitably mythical nemesis."

The headache had definitely increased now, and Neville rubbed at it again, glancing at his watch. He had a strong feeling that he wouldn't be talking to Hannah tonight. "I'll see what I can round up about this Diabhal Dubh, then, and I'll get back to you tomorrow. The strikes are getting closer together now, we can't afford to wait…I'll be on it tonight."

"Thank you, Longbottom," Shacklebolt smiled almost paternally. "You're doing an excellent job. I may have to try and tempt you into staying with the Auror Division permanently."

"All due respect, sir," Neville shook his head quickly, "you don't have a Niffler's chance in Gringotts. The second you graduate your first class of proper Aurors, I'll be out of my office so fast, you'll think I Disapparated. This isn't my idea of a life, and I don't just mean running down people that I'm more and more sure are old friends. I mean the danger, the  _ugliness._  Had more than my fill of that with the D.A., thank you very much. I'm just a quiet little gardener at heart."

"Perhaps," there was an odd smile on Shacklebolt's full lips. "but you have certainly proven yourself of being capable of more than weeding and watering when the situation calls for it."

Neville chuckled. "You've never tried to weed a Venomous Tentacula, sir."

"Just don't let yourself lose sight of what's at stake here, Neville." The deep voice had grown stern, and Neville startled slightly at the rare use of his first name by the Minister. "The Sluagh, whoever he is, has put the existence of the wizarding world in serious danger of being exposed in Ireland. Especially now that his attacks are growing more bold and rumors are spreading so actively, the situation is extremely dire, not to mention the obvious and untenable brutal loss of life. I don't care if it turns out to be your own grandmother, you cannot allow your feelings to sway you from your duty."

He nodded, but the words were hollow on his lips. "Of course not, sir."

"Very well." Shacklebolt did not seem entirely satisfied, but he seemed to know there was no more that could be said, and the smooth head nodded. "Good evening, then, and I will expect your report again tomorrow."

"Good evening, Minister." The flames rose, swirled again, and then the fireplace was filled with nothing more than cool gray ash. Neville stared into the empty stone nook for a long time, his hands hanging loosely by his sides, his shoulders bent under a weight that was all the heavier for its lack of substance.

He understood, oh, he understood perfectly well all the Minister had said and the wisdom to those words. And yet….

His eyes closed, and a hundred memories swirled behind them. Memories of a laughing, innocent boy. A keen-eyed youth. A hardened young warrior who still grinned and tossed cheeky jibes at Hermione even during the cease-fire that they thought the final countdown to their own last moments. Tears on a dark, cold cheek. Naked pain over an amber-filled bottle in a charred and ruined room.

What Shacklebolt didn't understand, couldn't understand, what no one who hadn't been one of them that year could ever understand was what was really at play here. It wasn't about anarchy, it wasn't even about war. It was about betrayal, a kind of betrayal the Minister could never grasp.

He hadn't spent the last year of his childhood and the first year of his adulthood preparing to die because they were alone, abandoned, completely betrayed by everyone and everything that should ever have protected them, breaking their hearts and their bodies and their innocence to try and spare the very youngest from what no one had spared them. Seamus was just continuing that fight, bringing vengeance to those who had evaded the supposed protectors of people as desperate and hopeless as that eight year-old with the knife. As the fourteen year-olds whose names were, as Mrs. Finnigan had sharply reminded him, etched in lifeless stone.

How could the man who had lead them through that nightmare turn traitor on his own?

"I can't." The statement was a ragged whisper to an empty room, and Neville sagged to his knees, his head heavy in his hands. "But oh, Merlin, Seamus, where are the lines drawn this time?"


	2. Lines of Duty

Neville was still on his knees by the fireside when the letter came. The sound of the owl's impatient rap on the windowpanes came twice, three times before it penetrated the haze, and he shook his head harshly as he got to his feet, brushing ash off his trousers and trying to dispel all traces of conflict from his features. "Coming!"

He thanked the owl, offering him a small tip for the late hour, but it was declined with a crisp little hoot, and he was soon left with the letter in his hands, turning it over slowly in the candlelight. The envelope was addressed in a hand that seemed vaguely familiar, but he couldn't quite place it, and the seal was some form of heraldic crest. The wax had blurred a little, which he thought might have been deliberate, because it kept the official look neatly enough, but the precise nature of the crest was impossible to determine. Still, staring at the outside of it wasn't going to offer him much in the way of answers.

Taking a deep breath, he cast a Shield Charm between himself and the letter, then reached around the edge of the silvery protection just enough to slit the envelope with his wand, yanking back again instantly. Nothing happened. Nothing at all. Only the edge of a piece of parchment looked back at him from the little slit.

Retracting the shield a bit, but still working cautiously, he opened the kit on his belt, extracting a pair of long, thin tweezers that were charmed to protect against setting off touch-sensitive spells or conveying poisons to the holder. Carefully, he eased the parchment from the slit edge of the envelope, teasing it open on the little table.

The message was brief, but he barely had time to read it and no time at all to consider it or the handwriting or anything else before both letter and envelope exploded. He yanked back, his arm flying up instinctively to protect his face as he jerked the Shield Charm to full strength, but it was unnecessary. It had been a tiny burst, no more than a firecracker, barely even singing the wood of the table, but fulfilling its purpose completely in reducing the missive to tiny flecks of floating ash and lingering sparks.

Realizing only now that he had been holding his breath throughout, he let it out in a long, shuddering sigh of relief, staring at the place the letter had been. The single line paced back and forth restlessly through his thoughts, and he closed his eyes, trying to bring the handwriting into focus again in his memory as it repeated.

 _N.L. meet me in the_ Naked Keel  _at midnight. Come alone. B.C._

B.C. was almost certainly Brian Callahan, and the Auror had pointed out the  _Naked Keel_  when he had shown Neville to the inn, telling him it was an old wizarding pub that dated back to Belfast's days as the greatest shipyard in Europe. The secret to their extraordinary success, to the astonishing strength of the British fleet they had turned loose to master the waves and lay a world empire for centuries had been in the skill of Belfast's select few "Master Shipwrights." Their closely guarded secrets were actually only in part the traditional shipbuilder's arts, and otherwise Sealing Spells and Engorgement Charms to create flawlessly tight joints, transfigurations that allowed heart of oak to be bent like butter and then set iron-hard again.

The destruction of the letter made sense: the Auror was almost as paranoid as old Moody had been, and now that he thought of it, Mad-Eye had been Irish as well. It was less of a surprise now that he had spent only a single day in their beautiful but war-torn land, but he still frowned, chewing his lip. Something was bothering him, something he couldn't quite put his finger on, and that was bothering him all the more. The note just seemed too familiar, but there was nothing unusual in the phrasing, nothing that seemed like it  _should_ stand out.

It was just a summons, just a request to be in a specific place at a specific time, and he knew he had little choice but to obey. If Callahan had something to tell him that couldn't be shared in the Auror offices, it had to be important. Perhaps he had found a contact who was willing to talk, but only in privacy? There were a thousand possibilities, and he couldn't afford to miss any of them.

The remaining hours until midnight passed like years, and by ten to, he was out the door, a traveling cloak wrapped snugly over the Auror's uniform he had carefully considered. While it was far from welcome in so many areas here, it would be hidden beneath the cloak, but if he needed to reveal it, the deep green robes with the Ministry seal and the crossed, sparking wands on the breast might give someone at least a moment's hesitation regarding the retribution that would come from harming the wizard who wore them.

He reached the  _Naked Keel_ at almost precisely midnight, and his heart was hammering in his ears, though his hands remained steady and unshaking as he pushed open the scarred and pitted door. The interior was dim, scarcely lit at all, but despite the late hour, almost three dozen similarly cloaked and hooded figures were clustered at the tables and along the bar. The pub was small, but the walls curved in oddly, meeting at a single long beam that ran the length of the ceiling, and it took him a moment to realize that the broad timbers were shaped like the inverted skeleton of an old sailing ship, the finished versions of which were painted and modeled in twenty or more places on the mantelpiece, bar, and walls.

The bar itself was crafted from interlocking gratings, the bottles arrayed behind a hundred portholes sunk into the wall, and he slid up to an empty stool, gesturing for the barkeep's attention. When the old wizard noticed and made his way over with a questioning look, Neville kept his cloak tightly closed and pitched his voice low, knowing that the Yorkshire which colored his words would be as striking as Chinese in this place. "I'm looking for Brian Callahan."

A low, dry chuckle sounded in the barkeep's throat. "Ya'll not find anyone here who don't answer to Patrick or Mary Murphy, lad, 'least while they're on this side o' the lintel." There was a pause, then the wrinkled cheeks creased more deeply into a secretive smile. "'Course, Pat over there," he nodded his grizzled head towards one of the cloaked wizards sitting alone at a small corner table, "he did mention that there might be a Brit lookin' for him 'round about this time o' night, and we don't get too many o' those, so I fancy he might o' been meanin' yourself."

"I fancy you might be right," Neville nodded, then reached into his pocket and pulled out a small handful of silver Sickles, pushing them across the countertop. He didn't want to flash too much around, but a show of tangible gratitude for the information struck him as expected and appropriate. The choice seemed correct as the barkeep nodded with a faint look of surprised respect and pocketed the money, but he spared no further attention to the proprietor as he gathered himself and crossed the room, his hand tight on the handle of his wand beneath the cloak.

"Mr. Murphy?" he asked quietly.

The shrouded face did not lift, nor was there any sign of movement, but a voice sounded from beneath the shadowed folds, a voice so quiet that there was nothing to tell beyond the accent that was ubiquitous. "Ya got me note, then?"

"I did." He sat slowly, the wand still at the ready, the cloak arranged precisely to cover the uniform while still allowing him to draw his weapon at a moment's notice. "I'm assuming you have something you want me to know?"

"Ah, so it's true, then. Fearless Leader's become a Provo."

Shock snatched the air from the room and stopped Neville's heart cold as the hooded head raised now, and the firelight fell across freckled skin and glinted in vivid blue eyes that were all too familiar.

"Seamus!"

"Somethin' I were called once, it were," he replied evenly, but his eyes were ice. "Though I hear that name has a price on it, and as long as you're answerin' to the Auror Department, I'd think thrice before I'd touch me wand in here. You'll find a lot o' people who wouldn't take kindly to it, and there wouldn't be much wonderin' over how a bloke like yourself might o' gotten himself hexed fair badly at midnight on Donagall Road."

A quick scan of the room revealed the truth to his words. The shift was subtle, barely perceptable, but conversations had become softer, there was a different feel to the air, and every hand was now within easy access of a sleeve or belt, several thin spindles of wood lying steadily on tabletops beneath their owner's fingers. Neville's own hand released his wand, and he crossed both empty hands flat on the table, keeping the movement casual, yet easily seen. "You know why I've been sent, then."

"I've me sources," Seamus nodded. "And I reckon they thought you'd be a better hope for the pesky fox what's been runnin' them circles. But I never saw ya as the type to easy turn on a friend."

"I never saw you as the type to make a man eat his own flesh before you murdered him," Neville replied.

The fair eyebrows raised a fraction with a look of deliberate innocence. "Now who said anythin' about that?"

"You're the Sluagh."

"Am I, now?" He looked up, calling across the room to another cloaked wizard. "Pat, darlin', do ya recall hearin' me say a single blessed word about bein' that lovely lad what's callin' himself the Sluagh?"

The hood was pushed back, and he should have been more surprised to see the dark curls and reddened cheeks of Brian Callahan as the Auror shook his head with an expression of matching innocence. "Not a word, Pat."

"You're –" Neville hissed, and Callahan nodded simply and without any trace of shame.

"Aye, and I'm also an alibi strong as goblin-craft if ya wound up Obliviated or worse while we were runnin' down a source, so why don't ya just hush yourself and listen to what Pat has to tell ya before ya sit quite so high on that Hippogriff."

There was a long pause, and Neville looked deeply into the face of his old friend. Now that the initial shock had passed, he could see the changes that five years had wrought, and an oddly detached curiosity wondered if he was himself so different now.

All traces of boyish roundness had gone from Seamus' face, the delicacy that had once bordered on prettiness now sharp, even harsh. His eyes were the same brilliant blue, but they were set deeper, lines already beginning to crease the edges even at twenty-three, and the scar on his lip had been joined by another that creased his right cheekbone in a thin pink gully through the freckles that stood out more strongly on a near-sunless pallor. The sandy hair had been grown long, clasped in a ponytail at the nape of his neck with a leather thong, and though a few strands escaped around his face, they did nothing to hide the line of bright blue knotwork that rose from his collar and up the side of his throat all the way to his hairline.

He was still unquestionably the same person, but he was nothing at all like the boy Neville had shared a cozy tower dormitory and innocent schoolboy worries with. This man had a primal, feral feeling about him, he carried the smell of peat and smoke and blood and wild sea air, and a shiver ran up his spine as he thought of the night he had perhaps first glimpsed the edges of this transformation in a drift of snow and a bloody shoulder.

Neville swallowed hard, but his voice was steady, his eyes never wavering from Seamus'. "All right. Tell me what the hell is going on."

"What would ya do," Seamus asked quietly, but his eyes burned in the dim firelight, "if ya could have stopped the Knights o' Walpurgis?"

Neville frowned, "The Death Eaters?"

"No. Before that. Back before the first war, before any of it were more than just a few sick people gatherin' together to share ideas dark as pitch and set things a rumblin'."

He paused a long moment, licking his lips before answering reluctantly, though it should have been easy. Somehow, it seemed  _too_ easy to answer such an obviously leading question. "Anything, of course."

"Would ya've killed?"

Leaning back in the chair, Neville crossed his arms suspiciously over his chest. "What are you getting at, Seamus – or Pat, or Sluagh, or whatever you want me to call you right now."

"Pat'll do lovely," he smiled, and it was almost, oh horribly almost the smile he remembered. "But Fearless Leader, ya didn't answer me question."

"All right," Neville let out a small snort of frustration, "yes, of course I would have killed. Maybe you've gone too far round the bend to remember, but I  _did_  kill people in the battle. I certainly haven't forgotten."

"Ah, no one's forgotten that night who were there, I promise ya. I know what ya did, I know what I did, and oh, lamb, but I remember what  _they_ did every moment o' me life, and I reckon I'll remember it long past me last breath as well." There was a darkness, a hardness there that he had never thought he would find in his friend, even at moments in their final year at the wizarding school when the blue eyes had seemed to hold shadows black as thunderstorms. "And I ain't gone round the bend near as far as ya'll find yourself wishin' I had, even if I'm first to admit that I ain't been half well since the sun rose on near everyone I loved useless gone."

"It wasn't useless!" Neville protested fiercely. "They died to stop Riddle! And he's  _dead_ …if you think he's not, then you need help,  _badly_ , and you need it before anyone else dies."

"Oh, aye, Riddle's feedin' the worms somewhere in an unmarked grave, and thanks be to that," Seamus agreed rather breezily, then he leaned forward, shaking back the hood as he hunched over his own crossed arms on the tabletop between them. "But it's the  _next_ I'm talkin' 'bout, and I always knew there'd be a next, so's I did."

"You think," he could not entirely hide the skepticism, though he knew it probably wasn't wise, "that this 'Diabhal Dubh' is the next Lord Voldemort?"

"That I do."

"And how is murdering your way through the back alleys of Ireland supposed to do anything about it? If you've got evidence that there's another dark wizard gathering power and trying to step into Voldemort's footsteps, for Merlin's sake, man, turn it in to the Auror Department, to the Ministry!" He unlaced his arms, reaching out to grab the freckled wrist intently. "All you're doing this way is getting yourself marked and buying a one-way ticket to Azkaban beside the very people you say you hate so much!"

"I don't know," Seamus shook his hand off callously. "I've heard Azkaban ain't half the punishment it used to be, ya know. Ever since the Ministry realized they couldn't trust the Dementors and banished them from the UK, it's bloody near a resort. Three squares a day and a roof over your head, no need to work for the robes on your back…no freedom, true enough, but still a fair better life than they put to half the world when it were their turn to be in charge o' matters."

"So you're doing this because you think Azkaban isn't punishment enough for the Death Eaters who got away? That me and Harry and Ron and a dozen others are still working every day trying to round up?"

"Now, Fearless Leader, I ain't puttin' no shame to the work ya've been doin'." There was a patronizing quality to his look that made an angry flush rise on Neville's cheeks, and he knew it would make the scars there burn as hotly scarlet as if they had begun to bleed anew. "But it do underline me point, even if it ain't the point itself. You're hamstrung, ya are, by rules and regulations and people tryin' to be more decent than filth deserve. Ya've set yourselves chasin' folk what don't put no such bounds on themselves, and you're never goin' to do it, not in ten thousand years. And you're goin' to sit back on the benefits of your doubts until Diabhal Dubh has risen himself too far to be stopped without an ocean o' blood to drown him in, less'n someone do somethin' now."

He wanted to protest again, wanted to insist that there was no way they would ever, ever allow another Voldemort to rise, but the slogans died in his throat. His own body was crossed with too many reminders that it had in fact happened once – twice if you considered that he had come back again – and there had been in hindsight hundreds of chances to keep it from happening at all. Neville's eyes narrowed, his lips pressed together tightly before he responded. "Explain…who is this Diabhal Dubh, and what is he – or has he – been doing?"

"We don't know who he is, not 'zactly," Seamus admitted, then continued quickly. "But we know what he's about fair enough. He were one o' Riddle's, but he weren't o' the inner circle, and we fancy that's left him thirstin', even as it's made him a far more slippery thing to catch. He don't give a Leprechaun's promise about Pureblood Superiority in the way Voldemort meant it, but he's got his own ideas that're a lot darker on this side o' the water, though our trust in the Ministry to do anythin' about it be all the less for that it ain't gonna stir your teapots for a fair long while after it's riled things here, and since when's an Englishman given half a shite for an Irishman's woes?"

"I remember," Neville said softly, "an Englishman who gave a lot more than half a shit for the Irishman who sits across this table now saying things that I think I should probably be insulted by after making him my Lieutenant and calling him my friend through the worst year of my life."

For the first time, the blue eyes softened, dropped, and a flush passed briefly over the pale, freckled cheeks. When he looked up again, there was a new openness there, and he felt like he could reach out and touch the ghost of the boy he'd once known behind the near-invisible lashes that glimmered gold in the warm light. "Ya did, and I'm sorry for lumpin' ya in with dogs…you're a good man, Neville Longbottom, and know that I love ya and ain't never quit lovin' ya as brother and comrade for that damned year."

Seamus took a deep breath, closing his eyes, then opening them again on a raw wound. "I coulda ditched ya easy as the other Peelers, but I'm talkin' to ya, and I'm talkin to ya because I know there's more in your heart than the way ya talk and the badge ya carry, and ya must forgive me that I've lost all faith in them. This is me  _home_ , Fearless Leader, me home and me blood and me people, and they took the worst o' what he did, even if the  _Prophet_ didn't bother to say, because the Death Eaters could do's they fancied among the Muggles and hide it in what the Crown itself had caused in hangin' stubborn to a corner o' what weren't never theirs, and damned what it did to poke and rile."

"I thought this was about Death Eaters and the Diabhal Dubh, not your politics." Neville drew back warily. "There's been a cease-fire for years now on the Troubles, I'm  _not_ going to get involved if you're trying to stir things up over Home Rule or bloody Republic!"

"Not me, Fearless Leader, the Diabhal Dubh!" Seamus spat towards the fire as if the name had left a foul taste in his mouth. "Look around here. Maybe ya can tell, most likely ya can't, but there's Orange and Freeman alike in this room, wizard and Muggle both. Because we're on the edge o' the unity we've long been prayin' for, but delivered in a nightmare true enough."

"The Diabhal Dubh been pushin' an idea that's long held in the back counties, that we're  _all_ magic, that Celtic blood itself makes ya magical, that it's in the green o' the land and the blue o' the rivers, and it's only Church and Crown what's pushed us back from it. He's been raisin' the old magic, the lost magic from before the Saxons and the Romans came, and he's been offerin' it to the Death Eaters and their lot as a way to have revenge for what Riddle lost, and to the fringe o' the Troubles what're still mutterin' in corners and lickin' their grudges as an Ireland united beyond politics with taste o' power that the likes o' us take for granted, but what Muggle's sell their Grannies for."

Neville's eyes widened. "He's  _deliberately_ breaking the Statute of Secrecy?"

"Puttin' it mild as milk, that is. He wants to pull enough o' them together to get a foothold, then go in the name o' Celtic pride and leavin' the Troubles proper behind and offerin' the Muggles somethin' they'll be hard put to refuse…and ill-able to fight if they do, and he'll just happen then to have himself more than Riddle had ever been able to dream o'. And of course, the Ministry'll have a hard time fighting an entire population, whether he's right that we're all sittin' on a core o' magic or not. That ain't even mentionin' the damned awkward questions there'd be from Muggles the rest o' the world over."

He let the possibility hang between them, then smiled slowly. "So ya see, Fearless Leader, why I'm wantin' to stomp this skrewt while he's wee."

Feeling dazed, confused, Neville shook his head, trying to gather his thoughts. "But…this is mental! If you don't even know who – how can you – it's all just so – all these murders – and what do you want from  _me?"_

Seamus nodded so reasonably that he practically seemed sane. "Fair questions, them, even if ya couldn't quite make any o' them come out all the way. For the first, we don't know who, but we've a shrinkin' list o' possibles, and when there's folk what can't agree on the color o' the broad blue sky all sayin' they've been offered the same sort o' thing under conditions where a lad ain't inclined to lie, well, that's cause enough to know there's more than chance goin' on. For the second, I can because ain't no other, and that were reason enough for yourself and Harry. For the third, aye, I know you're bein' tipped in at the far end, but there ain't no choice. The fourth: a talkin'-to and a fierce ticklin' ain't gonna scare away more from joinin' after the things we've come used to as Ulstermen. And for the last, Fearless Leader, darlin', that's the most important."

"If you think I'm going to just condone what you've done –"

"I don't care if ya condone a blessed thing." A dangerous edge had returned to the sing-song cadence. "Ya  _are_ gonna stop chasin' the Sluagh, ya  _are_  gonna work with Pat there to see that the Ministry is taken 'round its own tail and out o' our business. And if ya true mean it that you're me friend and don't want to see it all happen again, then I'll  _ask_ ya to join us."

The barkeep had appeared, and he placed two small glasses in front of each of them, both filled with golden whisky so aged that it clung to the sides like syrup. Seamus lifted the first of his own, gesturing Neville to the same. "So there ya are. I've given ya the first for I reckon ya need it. The second, well, you'll be the one tellin' me if it's a toast to a friendship that's stayed or one what's ended hard and cold and left us at throats…and if it's the latter, I'll swear your safety no further than the dawn."

Seamus tossed back his own without so much as a wince, but Neville lingered, turning it between his fingers, watching it sheet over the glass as his mind raced and reeled. Finally, after what seemed like hours, he spoke, his voice dry and shaking far more than he would have wanted, yet still firm. "Friendship isn't the question here. You're right, Seamus, this  _isn't_ my country, and you're asking…you're asking me to break more promises than…no. I'm sorry."

He looked up, taking a deep breath as the words hung in the air like a curse between them. "But I couldn't live with myself if I had sat by while another Dark Lord rose. So I'm making you a deal, Finnigan."

"A deal?" There was no emotion in the other man's voice, no hint of anything at all, and Neville went on undeterred.

"Our friendship is worth me stalling this investigation for one week.  _One week_ , not a moment longer, and that's only if there are no more murders. We get another body, and time's up the second it hits the ground. That's how long you have to present me with some real proof, not just your say-so, that this Diabhal Dubhis real, that his plans are real, and that this threat is real."

He lifted the shot to his lips, and though he lacked the practiced ease, he managed nothing more than a slight gasp as it burned sharply down his throat. "That's my decision made, but you can save the other drink for a week from now. Because if I don't have some proof by then, I'll know you've gone completely off your wand, and I'll mourn my friend, but I'll not hesitate a second to run a cold-blooded maniac straight to hell where he'd belong. Those are my terms. Take them or leave them."

The entire pub seemed to hang on a single breath, then Seamus extended his hand. "One week, Fearless Leader."

Neville took it, not flinching under the strength of the grip but returning it with equally merciless force. "One week, Lieutenant."

OOO

"I guess you understand now why I needed to talk to you in person, Minister." Neville spread his hands openly, his shoulders tense but his eyes dropping to the thick carpet as he waited for Shacklebolt's response. It could be anything from acceptance to outright losing his job, he knew, and he knew that anything in that entire spectrum would be perfectly fair.

Shacklebolt leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes and steepling his fingers beneath his chin as he thought for what seemed like an eternity. At last he spoke, opening his eyes to fix the younger wizard with a gaze of pinning intensity without so much as the twitch of one thick fingertip. "Have you hidden or altered any evidence?"

"No sir!" Neville shook his head quickly. "Honestly, I thought at first I might have to, but it's been way too easy to go nowhere with this. I still don't have a confession from Finnigan, and we were already damned sure as it was, and beyond that, I'd have an easier time getting Gran to part with her great-grandmother's goblin tea service than finding a witness who's willing to say anything. And the bodies have already given us everything you can get from a dead man. Even post-mortum memory retrieval only shows what we already knew…a Body-Bind from behind, then the eyes are the first thing he cuts. He knows how we operate too well, and it's no surprise, what with Callahan in it up to his ears."

"You give me your word on that, Longbottom? You have withheld  _nothing?"_ Shacklebolt's voice was unreadable, but Neville nodded with no trace of reservation.

"Nothing but what I've already told you: that I met with Finnigan, his mad story, the week I gave him, and that Callahan's one of his."

"All right." There was a deep sigh, and the steepled hands finally relaxed as Shacklebolt sat forward again to spread his hands over the polished surface of the broad desk. "I'm not usually in favor of my Aurors cutting deals with our top suspects, but in this case, I think you did the right thing. If he'd been able to give you some real proof, it would certainly have been worth a week's delay, and as it stands, it doesn't appear that you at least have actually needed to slow the investigation at all. I would ask you for the truth, however: do you believe that Finnigan is truly insane, or that he simply was unable to meet your deadline?"

He took a deep breath, licking his lips before he finally answered reluctantly, yet with more certainty than he wished was there. "Unless that was a Babbling Beverage instead of whisky on his breath, he's definitely three sparks shy of a spell."

"This is speaking as his friend?"

"This is speaking  _despite_ being his friend," Neville retorted firmly. "I'm the last person who wants to say that man's lost his mind: we were the only wizards left in Gryffindor that year, and he's the closest thing I'd say I've ever had to a brother who lived through that night. I'd have actually been relieved if he'd been able to give me any,  _any_ proof that there was really another dark wizard out there stirring up problems. But he couldn't, and sir, that's not just a lack of time."

The smooth head tilted, reflecting the setting sun of the wide magical windows like illuminated caramel off his dark skin. "The Ministry would be in an extremely awkward position if he turned out to be correct."

"Sir, I  _knew_ I'd get checkmated on the Sluagh this week," he protested, "so I've spent the better part of it trying to do Finnigan's job for him. I've talked to the family of every victim, used Mimicking Charms to slip into pubs where  _Callahan_ won't go, turned that city upside down and inside out, and there's no two ways about it. The Diabhal Dubh is a _myth_."

"There would be those," Shacklebolt pointed out coolly, "who have said the same thing about the Sluagh…that he's a myth, or more accurately, that he was a single killer who then spawned a rash of duplicates among the large community of people with grudges in that area."

"It's different. People won't talk about the Sluagh, but they won't talk about a  _person_. They'll say they saw him, but have sudden amnesia about any possible identifying feature. They'll tell me I'll never find  _him._ That he's welcome in any home and I'm welcome to do a lot of things that even magic doesn't make possible. But they talk about a person: a person that eats, drinks, sleeps, hides, thinks, and kills. It's completely different with the Diabhal Dubh."

"How so?"

"The more I try to hunt him down, the more he has all the hallmarks of an urban legend," Neville explained, pulling out the chair on the other side of the desk from the Minister and sitting in it to avoid the urge to pace as he talked. It wasn't professional. "No one's seen him, but everyone knows someone who has, and they are plenty willing to give details, except they're never the same, and they always turn out to be describing someone the witness hates or fears particularly for a personal reason."

He allowed the frustration to show in his voice, the words coming faster now, though he managed to keep actual sarcasm at bay as he relayed the fruitless results of a week's hard investigation and meager sleep. "He's in six places on the same night, he was originally a Death Eater, UDA, IRA, LVF, UFF, and an alphabet of others. Not to mention some of the things he's supposedly done or is trying to do are things that I remember being said a little too specifically about Riddle. No, sir. The Diabhal Dubh is about as real as the friend of my cousin's friend who blew off his left buttock sticking his wand in his back pocket or your assistant's boyfriend's brother whose girlfriend's father turned his daughter's knickers into a Portkey."

Shacklebolt nodded, and Neville paused a moment before he went on, the last of it harder to say than he had expected after he had already so firmly condemned his former schoolmate. "I do think  _Finnigan_ believes it, sir, and that makes him dangerous. This legend of the Diabhal Dubh is exactly what he wants to hear. He can't accept that it's just over, that we have to mourn our losses and just go on as best we can, so he's hungry for someone to tell him there's another battle to be fought, another chance to get revenge that's as bloody and painful as what Riddle took from him. He thinks he's fighting something very, very close to a holy war, and he's not going to stop on his own."

"You sound, Mr. Longbottom," the Minister said evenly, "like you are threatening to kill him."

"I sound, sir," Neville admitted blackly, "like I'm saying there's not going to be a choice if you want this to end."

"You already have the permission to use deadly force if it should become necessary," he reached for the long falcon quill that sat on the corner of his desk, glancing over the parchment in front of him before signing at the base with the broad, swirling signature that was as striking and imposing as everything about him. "But I am extending that past Finnigan himself to your discretion."

Shacklebolt's eyes raised from the parchment, and there was a gravity to them that Neville had rarely seen before. "There may not be a dark wizard trying to start a war in Ireland, but if we do not move quickly and firmly, I think there is an excellent chance your old friend may do the job himself by fostering paranoia and sparking off a lot of things that have barely been settled. I will find a reason myself to have Callahan reassigned, and you may choose your own partner from this point out. I am also placing the resources of any Auror office in the U.K. at your disposal. Apprehending Mr. Finnigan and determining the nature and extent of what he has been doing as or in collusion with the Sluagh is top priority."

Neville reached out to accept the parchment, his shoulders drawn back and his chin held firmly as he tried to look as though he were completely, resolutely up to the task. In fact, he was terrified. For all that he had said, for all that he had known already, there was something much worse about hearing this much older and more experienced wizard not only agree with him, but take such drastic action. He had almost wanted to be told that he was blowing things out of proportion, or that the matter was being taken out of his hands. The thinnest of smiles barely managed to bend his lips. "Thank you, Minister."

"You don't have to pretend you like this, Longbottom," Shacklebolt's eyes held his for a breath, then the deep bass came with an understanding that replaced the crisp officiality. "But I cannot give it to anyone else, not with the stakes this high. I hope you appreciate the trust I am placing in you here. Most Aurors your age are not even allowed to enter the field solo, much less hold the authority that is in that piece of parchment, but I saw what kind of leader you were when you were barely old enough to have your own watch. Do not prove me to have made one of my very rare mistakes in judging a man's character."

He wanted to answer, but he couldn't. The parchment folded in his hand all but burned his fingers, and he merely nodded as he stood, taking a step stiffly away from the desk before holding out his hand to shake the Minister's with empty formality. "I'll be Apparating back to Belfast then."

Shacklebolt did not question the suddenly wooden tone as he returned the handshake. "Good luck, Longbottom."

"Thank you, sir." Neville gave a final bow that was little more than a nod, then turned on the spot, concentrating with all his heart on the little room that was his one haven of peace in a part of the world that seemed to hate him more every day. Familiar darkness crushed over him, a squeezing, rushing sensation, then it passed, and he was there.

He had barely a moment, barely an instant to register that the room had been ransacked. The mattress and bedding were slashed, feathers still floating in the air like grotesquely exaggerated snowflakes, the furniture upended with drawers pulled out and their contents strewn everywhere. His notes and files were scattered on the floor in charred and blackened heaps, his carefully collected vials of silver memory shattered into glittering impotence, and across the wall above the splintered headboard, something too red and too wet scrawled  _Brit Go Home!_

The proof that they knew, that things spoken even in the Minister of Magic's own office were somehow known already should have shocked him, stunned him, made him stare, but there were some lessons you never forgot, and the faint but spine-deep tingle was one of them. The sensation of impending magic, he had become overwhelmingly aware of it as he had taught his fellow students how to fight non-verbally, how to know what was coming next in time to block. It was something he had forced himself in practice with Seamus of all people to recognize even in his sleep for fear of Snape and the Carrows, and it was that vigilance that saved him now.

Neville flung himself to the floor, his arms clasped tight over his head, no time to even grab his wand as the message erupted.

Fire belched across the room in a dragon's roar, blistering the air where he had stood only moments before with a white-hot flame. Had he been on his feet, he would have been incinerated, reduced to ash before he ever knew what hit him, but even though he had saved himself from the full force of the blast, the heat was still tremendous. Neville could feel his hair crinkle and singe, the back of his neck and hands stinging and tightening into an instant burn, and there was less than a few second's roasting smolder before his robes caught fire.

He rolled to smother the flames on his back before they could burn through the heavy wool to flesh, grabbing his wand from his belt. There was no saving the room, no use even trying. Everything was aflame, the air growing black and impenetrable with smoke even with the blaze of the firelight. He was coughing, choking as he cast the Bubble-Head and Freezing Charms, but they allowed him just enough time to concentrate again, to gather his thoughts enough not to leave half of himself behind in the burning inn as he turned on the spot for the second time in less than a minute.

When Neville reappeared in the narrow entry hall of 12 Grimmauld Place, he realized almost as soon as the disorientation of the Apparition had passed that the charmed bubble around his head still contained an alarming amount of smoke, and he burst it quickly, falling to his knees as he gagged and sputtered, sucking down the eternally slightly musty air of the old townhome as gratefully as the purest spring morning.

The  _crack_  of his arrival had not been missed, and he looked up as Ron and Hermione came barreling into the hallway, wands drawn, matching looks of alarm and confusion on their faces as they stared at their charred and scorched friend. "Blimey," Ron gaped, "I thought I smelled smoke…what the hell happened to you?"

Still coughing, his lungs burning with what he began to realize might be more than just the violation of the smoke itself, Neville managed a dark twist of a smile. "Seamus and I have had a bit of a falling out."

OOO

"Well, here's that solved." Hermione held up the tiny metal disk she had plucked from the hood of his robes, turning it in the candlelight. "Just a Muggle penny, but it's carrying Ventriloqutious and Protean Charms…pretty well cooked now, I don't think we have to worry, but still…." She tapped it with her wand, " _Evanesco!"_

Neville's lips pressed tightly together in frustration. "That  _bastard_. I bet it was Callahan who wired me, and I didn't even know it."

Hermione's dark brows shot up in surprise. "I didn't think you'd know that –"

"Colin called it that," he supplied bitterly. "We used exactly those two charms on a pair of medallions in the D.A. once so that they could eavesdrop when I…well, that doesn't matter now, I guess. It's just really crossing me that he's turning stuff from the D.A. against me. Insult to injury, you know?"

"I'd worry more about the injuries than the insults, mate," Ron said, nodding at the scarlet, blistered flesh on the backs of Neville's hands. "You came half a reflex away from winding up blacker than Hermione's breakfast fry-ups."

The young witch glared menacingly at her fiancé for a moment, then turned primly back to Neville with a little sniff of indignation. "He's got a point though, Neville. That was unquestionably meant to kill you. You're incredibly lucky there's nothing here that an hour at St. Mungo's can't put right."

"I'm not going to St. Mungo's."

"Those burns –" Hermione began to object, but he only shook his head.

"Are nothing a brilliant witch like you shouldn't be able to handle." He smiled hopefully at her, holding out the wounds in an almost childlike gesture that belied the determination in his voice. "But I'm not going near hospital. Like you said, the wire was cooked when my robes caught fire, and that was some serious cursed fire – not Fiendfyre, but something close to it, maybe  _Dracocindium_  – so I don't think there's probably much left of that inn. I want him to think he's done it, see if he'll drop his guard a little."

Ron's eyes narrowed. "You really mean to play dead? What about Hannah?"

The question hit him sharply, but he hesitated only a moment before his jaw set and he forced himself to shrug not casually, but with matter-of-fact resignation. "Better if she thinks I'm lost in the line of duty than if she knows the truth. She's not exactly Madame Rosmerta, she's a veteran too, and she's got that streak of raw stubborn loyalty that would not take very kindly to what Seamus has done here. She might be worth ten Aurors on his tail, but she'd also drive me mental with worry about her."

"That's all very nice as a thought," Hermione said, "but she's not going to sit still if she thinks you're dead, either. You're going to have the same problem, maybe worse, and it's not going to take her long to find out who she should be aiming at. You have to tell her, Neville. Witches are more inclined to listen if you don't try to hide things." The last was with a pointed look at Ron, who squirmed slightly, his freckled cheeks reddening, and he had the distinct idea that he had missed something he probably didn't want to know the details of anyway.

"All right," Neville sighed, "but could you tell her, Hermione? I can't very well go strolling into the  _Cauldron_ if I'm supposed to be a pile of ashes in Belfast, and I don't trust the Floo Network or really much of anything right now. That's why I came here instead of going home or to the Auror office or anywhere else. Seamus never knew about this place. Didn't hang around long enough for all the catching up."

"Still," Ron objected, "I'd like to get your targeted arse out of here as quick as we can, if you don't mind, whether it's supposed to be living or not. I know Harry gave it to us because he couldn't stand the memories, but Hermione and I've put a lot of work into making it someplace half decent to live in, and I don't much fancy the idea of it becoming the next spot on the list for my pyromaniac ex-roomie."

"Actually, Ron, I was kind of hoping you'd come with me." Neville offered his friend a lopsided smile, and Ron rolled his eyes.

"Oh, Merlin, I am not playing dead with you. Just reeks of more bloody hiding and camping, not to mention Mum would kill me the second she found out I was still alive if I put her through that again. She's off enough that Hermione'n me are with the Auror Department. 'Course she  _liked_ the idea when she was trying to push me for O.W.L.s, but…" he trailed off with an eloquent shrug that spoke volumes about the incomprehensible nature of mothers.

"Both of you, you're just being silly!" Hermione tossed her hair, one hand on her hip as she looked at them in annoyance. "Neville, you're absolutely right that you need to disappear for a while, but there are just too many problems in trying to pretend you're dead,  _especially_  when they don't find any human remains in that building. And Ronald, I am  _not_ going off on another wild goose chase like we did with Harry, whether we're supposed to be dead too or not."

"What're you getting at?" Ron asked with a look of slightly abashed curiosity.

"I'm going to talk to your brother, Ron. There are  _always_  people getting burned at the Reserve. We just need someone who's about six feet or close enough to fudge it, we wrap him up like a mummy, plop him in a private room at St. Mungo's, and Hannah latches onto his bedside like a Permanent Sticking Charm. Keeps her somewhere where you can relax, Neville, adds worlds of authenticity to your story, and lets us know immediately if your cover is blown." She smiled, eager now as she always was when she got going with an idea as she nodded to Ron, "You and I will be assigned to investigate what happened to him, which gets us up in Ireland, and he can follow in disguise – not Polyjuice, but there's a lot we can do with Transfiguration."

"I dunno," Neville said slowly, "If you and Ron are on the case…."

"Neville, you're one of my best mates," Ron said almost patronizingly. "C'mon, if you'd gotten attacked, it'd look bloody suspicious if we  _didn't_ demand to be put on it. But it's not like he's gonna see us as being as big a threat anyway. We don't know him the way you do, we don't know all the little tricks you blokes learned to ruin Snape's life, and Harry and I've both already been bounced out of that party empty handed."

"What  _about_ Harry?" he frowned, starting to run his fingers through his hair as he thought, then wincing at the sting of the burns. Hermione reached out, wordlessly taking his hand in hers and beginning to run her wand over the tender skin in elaborate little patterns, her lips moving silently as she muttered the Healing Spells.

"Downside of being The Boy Who Saved The Effing World," Ron grinned. "Can't take a piss without folk wanting his autograph. Now Hermione and I, on the other hand, have been sadly relegated to secondary status despite our own heroics, and I swear I could walk in and out of the Daily Prophet without anyone blinking an eye when I ditch the ginger."

His eyes narrowed as he tried and failed to imagine Ron's hair any color except its signature brilliant copper. "You sound like you've done it before."

"Couple times," he admitted, "mostly right after it all ended and I wanted to be able to take Hermione out for a bite without half the wizarding world at our table asking for Harry's owl address. Works brilliantly. Funny how people look for just one thing, you know?"

"And we can use Harry as our contact with Shacklebolt," Neville agreed, warming to the idea, "no one will think anything of you communicating with him privately, not as long as you've been best mates."

"Especially since he and Ginny –" Hermione began, but Ron cut her off, making a face.

"Oi! I don't want to talk about that!"

"I thought you were okay with Harry marrying Ginny, Ron?" Neville asked bemusedly.

Hermione laughed. "Ron was recently traumatized, it's okay. He'll get over it sooner or later."

"They need to do that in their bleeding  _bedroom_ if they're gonna give me a key to the flat," Ron muttered, and Neville chuckled.

"Okay, won't mention She-Who-Must-Not-Be-Shagged." He dodged Ron's only half-playful right hook, then took a deep breath, bringing himself back to the reality of their situation as he flexed his hands, testing and finding to his relief that Hermione's spells had left nothing more than a lingering pink tinge to the skin. "So we've got a plan, then?"

"I'm going to the  _Cauldron_ ," Hermione nodded, waving her wand to summon her traveling cloak from its hook on the wall. "I'll make sure Hannah knows what's going on before anything official gets to her. Ron, you send a Patronus to Charlie in Wales, then get with Harry so he can update Shacklebolt. Neville, you'd probably better make yourself scarce until we get things sorted out. We'll send a Patronus to let you know where to Apparate when you're ready, but in the mean time, I'd suggest somewhere in outer Mongolia."

"North Highlands, actually," he corrected her. "The Macmillans' place is about as safe as you can get, and Seamus won't be very welcome there once Susan knows what's going on."

"Grand, then." Ron rubbed his hands together, his blue eyes glittering in a way that Neville hadn't seen since they had gotten the lead that had tracked down Mulciber. "Looks like another adventure, don't it?"

"We always do seem to do it in threes," Hermione agreed bemusedly.

"Only this time," Ron slung one long arm across Neville's shoulders, "I reckon we're in it a bit deeper, don't you? I mean, Harry's just got Riddle's little memento on his head."

Neville cast the other man a deeply skeptical look. "Don't tell me you're more afraid of Seamus Finnigan than you are of Lord Voldemort."

"'Course I am," Ron nodded breezily. "Finnigan's deranged. Riddle's just decomposed. Tell me what bothers  _you_  more."

"Finnigan," Neville laughed, surprised to hear the sound at a time like this, but reveling in it nonetheless, "definitely Finnigan."


	3. Getting In

"Uncle Neville!" The brisk chill of the wind that always swept the Highland moors had barely registered when Neville heard the child's eager squeal, and he spun, kneeling just in time to open his arms before the little figure careened into him at full speed. He scooped her up, standing to swing her high in the air and cause another delighted shriek before he twirled her to the ground again.

Cecily's round face was flushed, several dark curls fallen low across her forehead from beneath the blue tam that had somehow remained perched on her head even through the exuberant greeting, and she made no move to push them away as she beamed at her godfather. "Ye're smelly," she announced cheerily, wrinkling her nose. "Didye bring me summat?"

"Not this time, baby," he chuckled. "I've got to talk to your Mummy, though. Where is she?"

"Right here," Susan's voice was equally colored with amusement and concern, "perpetually outrun by a four and a half year-old that makes me feel like a crone sometimes…but what's going on, Neville? We didn't get any word you were coming, and you're  _scorched_."

He nodded his head significantly towards her daughter as he shook out the charred fabric of his robes. "Oh, it's nothing. Just had a little bit of an accident. Even grown-ups need to be careful with fire, but I didn't have time to send word…this place is just nice to come visit when you need to get away sometimes."

Thankfully, his meaning was not lost on her, and her dark eyes grew serious, her pretty face falling solemn as she took Cecily by one arm and turned her back towards the gray stone farmhouse that sat in the heart of the glen barely thirty paces away, swatting the girl gently on the back. "Go on, Cecily. Mummy and Uncle Neville need to talk for now, and then we'll be inside. Tell Papa he's here, will you, love, and that he'll need a change of robes? That's a dear."

"Aye, Mummy! An' I'll tell Da he's here too, he'll like that!" Cecily's look of disappointment at being sent away had vanished in the self-importance of being given a task, and she scampered off quickly, her long hair bouncing behind her as she ran.

Susan watched her go, an odd look on her face as she fingered the rings she still wore on her left hand. Neville frowned in understanding sympathy, keeping his voice low to ensure that the preternaturally sharp ears of the very young would not pick up his words. "She's still –"

"I don't even know if I should be so worried," Susan nodded pensively, "I mean, it's not impossible that she's right, that Ernie  _does_ still watch over her, but I'm not entirely sure if I should do something about it now that she's getting older. If he's still there, I don't want to try to drive him away, goodness knows, but I don't want her being too confused about what it means that her father's gone."

"It'll work itself out," Neville assured her gently. "She's still a baby…my Mum and Dad were my imaginary friends at that age, and I think I've turned out okay. You've done wonderfully with her, you really have."

"It's just hard sometimes," she shrugged, the gesture not as dismissive as he knew she wanted it to be. "I could never have done it without Duncan and Fiona, but oh, Merlin, she looks more like him every day. I miss him so much, I feel like I  _hope_ it's true, you know?" Her dark head ducked in embarrassment, her hands twisting the golden bands fretfully. "I talk to him sometimes. Tell him I still love him, that I'm grateful…Fiona's been trying to get me to move on, and I guess that's a bad sign, when your husband's _mother_  is trying to set you up with other wizards, but…."

"If it happens, it happens, Sue. Ernie would certainly understand if you did find someone else – you're only twenty-two – but there's no need to push or go looking if you're not ready." He put one arm around her slender shoulders, squeezing gently in comfort, then his voice grew businesslike. "But I wish I was coming for just a visit. How do you ban someone from the glen?"

She looked up sharply, blinking back the moisture that had begun to gather in her eyes instantly. "I'm sorry! Here you are, looking like you've been roasted alive, and I'm – but you don't  _ban_ someone. If they're not loyal friends or loyal blood, they just can't get here. If they are, there's no keeping them out. Why? What's  _happened_  to you? What's going on? Does this have to do with the Aurors?"

"I wish it didn't," he replied darkly. "There's some pretty bad business going on in Ireland, and I've been put on the case, because Finnigan's in it up to his ears, and either he or someone really close to him just tried to kill me not an hour ago. Set a trap in the inn where I was staying, came within a hair of burning me to a cinder – would have been toast if I hadn't felt the spell gathering in time to duck."

Her eyes widened hugely in horrified disbelief, her hand going to her mouth. "You don't mean  _Seamus,_ do you?"

"I wish I didn't."

"That's impossible!" She shook her head adamantly, her heavy braid swinging. "I can't believe it, Neville! There has to be some mistake! Just because he hasn't kept up with the old army doesn't mean he would ever,  _ever_ –"

"A lot has changed, Sue." His voice was bitter as he cut her off. "I've met with him, seen him in person just a week ago, and I wouldn't have recognized him if I hadn't known who I was talking to. He's lost his mind, he's chasing demons and shadows that don't even exist to try and run from the ones that do, and as far as he's concerned, we're mortal enemies now because I'm trying to stop him."

"Stop him from what?"

"Murder," Neville answered bluntly. "Vicious, brutal vigilante killings of people he thinks are trying to stop this 'Diabhal Dubh' he's decided is the next Ridde."

There was a long pause as her eyes searched his, seeing the absolute seriousness there that she could not deny. Finally, she took a deep breath, her shoulders squaring. "All right. Well, let's get you inside, get you cleaned up, regrow your hair before Hannah has a fit…does she know?"

"Hermione's telling her. I don't want you to be upset if you see in the  _Prophet_ that something awful happened to me unless you hear confirmation from Hannah, Ron, Hermione, or Harry  _in person._  I'm going to have to drop off the map for a while, and I don't want any more of my old friends getting pulled into this mess. Can you promise me you and Cecily will stay in the glen until this thing has passed? I'm not afraid for the whole D.A., but he's going to suspect the survivors of the old Senior Staff of helping me, and there's not that many of us left."

"Luna?" Susan asked as they started to make their way back across the farmyard towards the house.

"She's still in Eastern Europe with her new boyfriend looking for Merlin-Knows-What, she should be fine, and Harry and Ginny are both Aurors in their own right and both of them have been warned. I wish I could do more, but…."

"If anyone else needs to flee, let them know they can come here if they don't mind shearing Demiguise and grading hair," she provided firmly, then turned back to him with a determined blaze in her eyes. "And if Seamus turns out to be innocent, he can hide here too until you can prove it. I'm not going to put my daughter and I at risk if he  _has_ gone mad, but if he hasn't, I don't care how long it's been since we've seen each other; he fought beside us, he fought beside Ernie, and that will always mean something to me."

"You're a good woman, Sue," Neville pulled open the door for her, smiling warmly at her as she passed through into the cozy house, "I knew I could count on you."

Her reply came with a bittersweetly nostalgic smile of her own. "Always, Commander."

Neville had to explain things again to Duncan and Fiona, then a third time to Robbie, the Macmillan's nineteen year-old nephew who had taken Ernie's place in helping run the farm. All the while, the witches were working busily, and he soon found himself Scourgified and fed, the last of the burns tended and his hair regrown as he was provided with clean robes and his own uniform was whisked away to see what magic could do for the burnt cloth. Within an hour, he actually felt very much his old self as he sat with Cecily playing with her dolls on his knee, slowly nursing a pint of the Macmillan's homemade cider as he discussed their plans and options with Duncan.

They were interrupted by a streak of silver that soared into the warm kitchen, swirling brightly through the air before it resolved into the figure of a ghostly dragon that made Cecily shriek, ducking under the table and gripping the edge in her chubby fingers as her wide eyes peeped nervously over the worn oak at the Patronus. It tossed its head, then the fanged jaws opened – making the girl vanish entirely – and it spoke with the familiar voice of Charlie Weasley.

"We've got someone for you, Neville, a trainee bloke named Ioan who got himself on the wrong side of a Green three days ago. I'll be Apparating up to catch you up on what my baby brother's been up to and to grab a bit of your hair, if you've got any left after what I've heard about your run-in with Finnigan. I don't know if you have to make any special preparations to let me Apparate in, so I'm giving you five minutes notice to get your knickers on."

The dragon winked, then vanished like smoke, and Cecily's voice came with the gravest disapproval a four-year old is capable of from beneath the table. "I dunnae like dragons none. T'scare me. He cannae come here, Uncle Neville."

"It's okay, love," Susan said soothingly, kneeling to crawl beneath the table and gather her daughter in her arms. "It's not a real dragon, and no real dragons are coming here. It's just a Patronus, like Mummy's boar or Uncle Neville's bulldog. You like Mr. Weasley, right?"

Cecily frowned suspiciously. "Which one?"

"Charlie: the one that brought all the friends to help get rid of Riddle. The one with the pictures on his arms."

There was a long moment of contemplation, then finally Cecily nodded in reluctant approval. "If he brings sweeties."

"Charlie hasn't gone anywhere without sweets in his pockets since Victoire was born," Neville chuckled, "I think the young lady's conditions can be met just fine."

"Ye whole lot spoil the lass dreadful," Duncan frowned, but there was a twinkle in the hazel eyes he had shared with his son and now sparkled in his granddaughter's sweet face as well.

"'M tha Princess of Dumbledore's Army," Cecily informed them matter-of-factly.

A laugh rippled through the adults, and Neville shrugged helplessly, giving a sheepish grin as he gestured down at the tiny witch curled in her mother's lap. "What can you say to the truth?"

When the dragon wrangler appeared with a  _crack_ a few minutes later, he found himself immediately facing the solemn-faced child, her hand outstretched palm-up in front of her, and his freckled face crinkled into a grin of immediate recognition. "Want something, Cee?"

"M'name's nae See, 'tis Cecily," she informed him, "an' I want ma sweeties."

" _Please_ , Cecily," Susan corrected her sternly, then shrugged ruefully at Charlie. "I'm sorry, Mr. Weasley, she was kind of scared by your Patronus, and she –"

"Of course, and I'm sorry I scared you,  _Cecily_ ," Charlie nodded, crouching down to her level as he fished in his pockets and withdrew a small, brightly-wrapped toffee. "Here you go. One sweetie and my apologies, but I'm going to have to have some grown-up talk if you don't mind now."

There was a moment's contemplation as the sweet was unwrapped and popped into her mouth, then she grinned with newly blue-colored teeth as she scooped up her doll and flopped cross-legged into a corner of the kitchen. "Aye, s'alright."

"As long as I have your permission," Charlie laughed, then turned back to Neville. "We're pretty well set with things. Ioan's on his way to St. Mungo's – I don't need your hair after all, Hannah provided Hermione with some from your comb at the  _Cauldron –_ but she also drew the line that if you're going with them, it's going to be Polyjuice for you too, not just Transfiguration. Apparently, you two had a bad experience with that once, and she doesn't trust it when wands are down." He withdrew a flask from another pocket of his robes and held it up. "This should be enough for a start, and Hermione has access to more through the Auror offices when you need it. She wants you to meet her and Ron in Belfast's Victoria Square at sunset. They're just getting their final authorizations from the Minister now and making sure all the loose ends are tied up officially speaking."

"Thanks for helping out with this, Charlie," Neville shook the other wizard's hand firmly as he took the flask. "I know we didn't give you much notice, and it's not exactly the best sort of thing to drag you into the middle of."

"Don't." The ginger head shook quickly, and his brown eyes were steady as they met Neville's. "I still owe you guys for not getting there faster that night. Don't think I'm ever going to forget that, either. If you ever need anything, I'm yours."

"You saved our lives," Neville protested. "We'd never have –"

"Look, let's not go over this again," Charlie cut him off. "Just take the help, and promise me that you'll let me know the second I can do something else for you."

"Of course," Neville promised, then uncorked the flask, sniffing cautiously at the contents. "So who am I?"

"Not decided yet," Charlie waved his hand at the shimmering potion. "Left that up to you. Who do you think is the best bet to run down an old friend?"

For a while, no one said anything, then Susan stood, pulling a wand from the inside pocket of her robes. It was not her own dainty piece of pearwood and unicorn, but oak and dragon, far sturdier, even a little crude-looking, with a thick band of gold inlaid deeply just above the handle. At the same time, she reached down her collar, pulling out a small but beautifully worked silver locket and opening it to reveal a single straw-blonde curl. She held the two items out to Neville on her open palm, and her eyes and voice were resolute as she smiled humorlessly at him. "Another old friend."

OOO

"Merlin's beard, Neville, you nearly gave me heart failure! Warn a bloke if you're gonna show up wearing someone who's been bloody demised for five years, will you?" Ron's face was startlingly pale as he ran one hand through his newly mouse-brown hair, shaking his head incredulously.

"It was Susan's idea," he shrugged a little awkwardly, still not really accustomed to the new width of his shoulders. "She thought he'd be about the last person anyone would be on the lookout for, and this kind of strength's more than half useful if I find myself in trouble."

"I think it's brilliant," Hermione said firmly. "We'll still do a little Transfiguration so descriptions of you won't set off any bells for Seamus, but this way even if you do get hit with a Revealing Charm like Hannah was worried about, they'd just be more confused than ever by what they found. How much potion do you have?"

Neville held up the flask Charlie had given him. "Two days or so, doesn't take much to just keep it up, and I've got more hair when we need the next batch and my watch set to go off every fifty-five minutes."

"Still think it's creepy," Ron shivered.

"Kinda, yeah," Neville agreed. "I've really been trying to avoid my own reflection. Makes me miss him something fierce."

Hermione made a sympathetic face. "Well, the Transfiguration should help that some. Over here, Neville, we don't want Muggles watching."

Victoria Square was a dilapidated collection of mostly abandoned buildings near the city center that housed the Northern Ireland Auror Division beneath an old, disgustingly stained once-white phone booth, but there were plenty of odd nooks offered by the ubiquitous red brick architecture, and the local vagrant population made a convenient art of minding their own business. Hermione pulled him into the deep shadows of a nearby doorway, Ron standing watch as she drew her wand and ran it over his already-altered features.

When she was finished, the blonde ringlets were as flaming red as Ron's hair had once been, the hazel eyes deepened to a true brown, the twice-broken nose straight and slender, and the square, almost lantern jaw was slightly tapered. She crossed her arms, stepping back to survey her work with an appraising frown as she tapped the end of her wand against her chin. "Yes," she said finally, "that should do…and you know, you're even rather good-looking if I do say so myself. I never really recognized how much Macmillan's looks were affected by that nose."

"You aren't about to go for another witch's husband twice over now, are you?" Ron teased.

"No, Ron," she replied with a faint note of playful exasperation. "If anything, you should feel flattered that I've got a fondness for redheads."

"You'll find plenty of those here, maybe I should be worried," Ron retorted.

"Never." Hermione turned to him, stretching up on the tips of her toes to kiss his cheek gently. "Only one ginger for me, I promise, and I know what's under there."

Neville raised an eyebrow in mock scandal. "More than I wanted to know, Hermione."

"Aw, get off it, mate, we shared a bathroom for six years, ain't none of the five of us got any secrets where that goes." Ron laughed self-deprecatingly, then grinned as he gestured towards the thick arms Neville had crossed over his chest. "But you might have a little more sympathy for me playing Keeper now. How would you have liked those things hurling a Quaffle at  _your_ head?"

"Your bravery knows no bounds, Weasley," Neville responded dryly. "But we need to decide how we want to do this…what's the official word from Shacklebolt?"

"Ron and I will be staying in the Auror office," Hermione said. "It'll be a little awkward – we're actually going to be sleeping in the holding cells – but after what happened to you, they aren't housing us anywhere else. The official investigation starts first thing in the morning after we get caught up on all the files. We'll be working with a wizard named Tarrington that Shacklebolt knows personally to be clean. Callahan's been called out to Londonderry on a tip about the Diabhal Dubh that's got about as much substance to it as an infestation of Nargles, but it'll keep him out of our hair."

"And me?" Neville queried.

Hermione reached into her pocket, producing a yellow flier so bright it seemed to glow in the fading ruddiness of the sunset. "You're going in through the back door, trying to help us find potential victims so we can hopefully track him that way. Pick your own name and side, but you're a newly graduated Uni student who's decided to join up with things here. See if you can get to know any of the kind of nasty customers that the Sluagh likes to carve up."

"Lovely," Neville made a face. "But I guess I'll have to go Orange. I might look the part well enough now, but there's no passing me for native Belfast the second I open my mouth." He motioned to the flier. "So what's that? Some kind of recruitment thing?"

"No, it's just where you're going to be staying. We've already swept it for magic, and it's straight Muggle, and nothing political about the place either. It's down by Queen's University, a place called Arnie's Backpackers, and it's not fancy, but the price is right, too. About a Galleon a night, although I've got Muggle money for you."

He took the flier, smiling as he saw the hand-drawn map on the back that labeled the surrounding streets according to their containing "pubs," "shopping," "more pubs", "pubs and restaurants," and "even more pubs." Neville turned it in his hands, trying to find where they were now, then gave up and looked to Hermione. "How far away is it?"

"About a mile," she replied. "You can walk there no problem. Just take a left on Montgomery, right on Chichester, left on Calharne, right on Donegall Square South, left on Linenhall, right on Clarence, left on Linenhall  _west_ , left on Bedford, left on Bradbury Place, right on Lisburn Road, then right on Fitzwilliam, and it'll be right there at number sixty-three."

Neville gaped at her, shaking his head slowly. "Clearly, you think my memory is my best feature. I'm going to wind up Merlin-knows-where, mark me."

"Oh, for goodness sakes." Hermione sighed deeply, then tapped the map with her wand. Immediately, a tiny black spot, almost like a stray blot of ink appeared, but it was blinking steadily. "Just follow it. It'll turn red if you go the wrong way, and it'll lead you right to the hostel."

"Okay." He folded the little map and tucked it into the pocket of his trousers. "We can still use the Galleons to communicate safely enough, as long as we make sure to send the messages directly to each other and not to all of them. Beyond that, there's always Patronuses, though those might be dicey if I'm going to be up to my eyes in Muggles. How am I supposed to get myself in with these people anyway?"

This time it was Ron who replied, pulling one of the official Auror's tablets from his pocket that allowed the elite group of wizards to take notes on cases and leads without anyone but themselves being able to read them. "Last time we were here, Harry and I heard about a pub not too far from where you'll be staying where there's been some real problems. Kimberley Bar on Sunnyside off Ormeau. It's Loyalist, so that's good for you. Some bloke named Roy Green got himself shot there on the Muggle side of things not long ago, and that's where two of the Sluagh's little friends have been found, or near enough. It's supposed to be a proper stronghold for the Red Hand Defenders, and with marching season coming up, they should be getting themselves worked up."

"I'll hit it tonight," Neville agreed. "And just so you know, I'm going to be calling myself Jack McKinnon. He was –"

"Yeah, friend of my parents too, I've seen pictures from the first Order," Ron said knowingly. "Just don't follow in his footsteps, okay? We've both had to promise Hannah we'll try to keep you alive, and I for one don't want to be on that witch's bad side. Saw her bounce a bloke bigger than Kingsley out of the  _Cauldron_ neat as you please once when he was making trouble."

"You should see what she does if you leave your robes on the bedroom floor where she can trip over them," Neville chuckled. "Okay, then. Meet up tomorrow 'round noon and see where we've all gotten?"

"We'll blend in most completely at the Uni," Hermione said. "There's a coffee shop right across from the library. Let's meet there, half-twelve. And Ron's right, Neville; take care of yourself."

"I will," he promised. "And so will Jack McKinnon. Besides," a dark smile crossed his mouth, "even if I can't track down someone the Sluagh wants, it'll feel pretty good to lay some troublemakers at the feet of the Muggle police. Clean things up the way it  _should_ be done."

OOO

Despite the intimidating directions, Hermione's charmed map proved easy enough to follow, and Neville soon found himself facing a Victorian-style townhouse with a sign in the front yard that brightly proclaimed it to be the place he was looking for. He took a deep breath, a little nervous at staying at a wholly Muggle establishment, but he shouldered the rucksack Harry had given him a year ago when he had gone on holiday to the Shetland Islands to search for rare lichens, climbing the few steps to the slightly battered-looking door with as much confidence as he could muster.

The moment he opened the door, two small terriers erupted off the old, overstuffed sofa in front of the coal-burning fireplace, hurtling towards him in a whirlwind of ferocious barking that was belied by the tails wagging so fiercely that the entirety of the small dogs' bodies were quivering. He laughed, bending down to offer them the back of his hand to lick and sniff, and they seemed to decide that he was not, in fact, a threat, quickly scampering back to their previous posts on the sofa.

"Ya lookin' for a room, lad?" The voice was kind and cheerful, and he stood, looking around a moment before he saw a woman in a brightly-patterned floral housecoat standing in a nearby doorway, drying her hands on a tea towel.

"Yes, ma'am," he replied, holding out the flier. "Do you have any open?"

"If ya don't mind sharin'," she smiled. "'Tis one o' the better ones, though, if I don't say so meself. Tea and coffee's free, we don't go lockin' ya in or out, all we ask's that ya don't make trouble. If ya come back pissed, chuck it on the sidewalk or in the commode, not in the halls, and if ya take a likin' to one o' the other folk stayin' here, you're all young and I ain't none your Ma, but it's a bit snug in here, so we prefer ya to find somewhere else for that too."

"That seems fine with me," Neville nodded agreeably. "What do I need to do?"

"Five pounds and a wee form's all I ask, then you're welcome to find yourself a bunk, though you'll have to tuck your sack under't, as we ain't havin' no lockers or cubbies," her smile widened in exaggerated appraisal as her eyes scanned from the red curls to his shoes and back again. "Don't reckon a lad like you'll have much worry o' anyone messin' with his things, though. Ya play rugby, love?"

He shook his head, not entirely sure what rugby even was. "Sorry, I don't."

"Ya should," she informed him with a wag of her finger, "natural, you'd be. But here, what can I fetch ya while we get ya written up and settled in?"

He accepted the eye-wateringly strong tarlike brew that she handed him under the guise of coffee as he filled out what was thankfully a very wee form indeed, taking note as she reviewed the handful of other little rules that kept the hostel running smoothly. She didn't ask him for any identification, as young people with a bit of an anarchistic or eccentric streak seemed to be the rule here, and he was grateful for Hermione's find. As he watched a number of other tenants come and go, many of them with hair as alarmingly vibrant as Mrs. Lupin's had been, or with t-shirts bearing what seemed deliberately inflammatory slogans, he had a feeling he could have openly walked around with his wand and robes without drawing so much as a raised eyebrow.

His room was small, about the size of the bedroom he shared with his wife in the flat above the  _Cauldron_ , but there were four bunkbeds crammed into it, and only the lower bunk of one was not already occupied. Neville crossed to it a little awkwardly, feeling the eyes of his new roommates on him keenly as he tucked his rucksack under the bed, then turned to face them, rubbing his palms against the thighs of his trousers with a tentative smile. He had lost a lot of his shyness over the years, but seven complete Muggle strangers as sudden roommates was still a bit of a reach. "Uh, hi."

There was a moment's pause, then a young man unfolded himself from one of the other lower bunks, revealing a lanky frame that would have towered over Neville even if he hadn't lost three inches of height to the Polyjuice. His face was deeply tanned, throwing hair almost as white-blonde as Malfoy's into sharp contrast, and his eyes were pale, almost ice blue. "Dieter Bjornsonn," he introduced himself, "been here a week, staying two more. It's a nice place,  _ja_?"

"Jack McKinnon," Neville shook the outstretched hand firmly. "Wouldn't know yet, but seems like it." He glanced around the room, his eyebrows raising curiously. "I guess I don't have to worry that I'm not Irish born, then."

" _Nyet,"_  A youth on the upper bunk with a shaved head and hooked nose that reminded him of Viktor Krum leaned over, crossing his arms over the rail and leaning his chin on them. "I am Piotre, Ukraine." He motioned around the room. "Italian, another Englishman, Dieter's Norvegian, Brazilian, just so long as no American."

Dieter laughed, a bright, ringing sound that threw his whole head back. "There was big argument two days ago with our big Texas cowboys. They have another thing there they call football. Is not, but most of us just let them be crazy, yes, because they can't help it. Best probable you not get into this."

"I prefer Quidditch," Neville replied with a deliberately cryptic smile, and the occupant of the bunk above his own raised one dark eyebrow.

"You just do it with lights off, we no care, Jack.  _Tu fai cosa tu fai._ "

"Fair enough!" Feeling his cheeks heat, but having long ago learned how to take a good-natured jibe, he sat down on the bunk and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Still, I guess we're all here for Ireland. Do any of you know where I could meet up with some proper locals?"

"Looking to pull or sight-see?" asked a short, skinny young man with a red jersey that read "Manchester United" and an accent very similar to Neville's own.

"Sight-see," he replied, "and maybe more, but not that way. I'm thinking of moving here; it's where my family was from, but they wound up in Leeds after the Great War."

"Not a shock you're a Mickey under there," nodded the other Englishman, "you look like an O'Summat or a McWhatcher anyway. Still, I'd point you down to the Uni anyway. There's always blokes hunting for roomies and places posting for work if you're looking to get settled."

"Be careful with make friends." Piotre's voice was surprisingly grim, and Neville looked up at him, frowning.

"Oh?"

"Is like my country, I think some. Government say everything okay, yes, but still sometimes people get hurt because say wrong thing to people not let go, still…." He trailed off, struggling for the word, and he made a scrawling gesture against the wall with his finger. "Angry word, people write on things –"

"Grafitti?"

" _Da_. I see it a lot in washroom when I go to pub. Some is fresh. Make me think should still be careful if going to stay that you should not make friend who is still angry person."

Neville nodded solemnly, thanking the other man and agreeing that yes, he would have to be very careful, but inwardly, he was suppressing a grin as he felt the watch in his pocket buzz and took a small, deliberately casual sip from the flask. He was definitely in the right area if the tensions were still strong enough to attract the attention of complete foreigners, and he had every intention of making friends who were still very, very angry people indeed.

OOO

The Kimberley Bar was easy enough to find even with the non-magical map drawn for him by the landlady at the hostel, and Neville paused as he stood outside in the yellow glow of the dim streetlight, chewing his lip apprehensively as he stared at the dingy façade. At first, it seemed not particularly different from the dozens of other pubs that scattered the streets of the old port city, but at further examination, there were distinct signs that it was more than just another place to get a pint. A red poppy was inlaid into the stained glass of the door, and below the Union Jack that flew in place of the more common green, white, and gold of the Irish flag above the door, there was a second, smaller flag that Neville didn't recognize; white with two blue stripes and a six-pointed blue star that looked identical to the silver charm Goldstein wore on a chain around his neck.

There was no sign of bloodstains on the cracked sidewalk, but he knew that at least three people had died there in the past two years, and he took a deep breath before he entered, knowing that there was little turning back now. Inside, the pub's allegiances were even more clearly marked. Clippings from Muggle newspapers listing attacks by Irish Nationalists were framed on the walls between the football posters and alcohol adverts, and as he found a seat at the bar, a poem scratched deeply into the polished surface erased any lingering doubt.

 _You cannot ask for freedom, you take our freedom away_  
You cannot ask for justice, you murder day by day  
You told the world your story, you lied at every turn  
You never said you're sorry, for the terrible deeds you've done

The barkeep was only a few years older than Neville himself, but he had a hardened look to him, and the side of his mouth was permanently turned up by the tight gnarl of a scar that looked as though someone had tried to slit his face open in a long-ago knife fight. On the back of his wrist, a tattoo showed the simplified figure of a man in a bowler hat above the numbers 1690, and he studied Neville through narrowed eyes as he wiped out a tall tumbler. "What'll ya have?"

"Pint of whatever's on tap," he replied, watching the flicker of surprise cross the barkeep's face at his obviously English accent, but pleased to see that there was no sign of animosity.

"Beamish, Harp, or Guinness?"

He hesitated, none of the names familiar to him. "Your choice…but I like a good ale over a stout, if that's all right."

"Beamish it is." There was a pause while the barkeep maneuvered the glass expertly under the tap, then set it in front of him, the golden liquid neatly crowned with a thick, frothy head of foam. He watched as Neville took the first sip, then leaned a little too casually against the bar, tilting his head curiously. "So what brings ya down to Ballynafeigh?"

"Don't happen to think there should be much problem with being born in Leeds if my last name's McKinnon and I want to move back to Belfast, but not everyone seems to feel that way, and I heard this was the sort of place where no one would consider being English and Irish to mean having divided loyalty." He spoke carefully, but he wasn't afraid to let the other man see that his fingers were almost dangerously tight on the glass, to hear the practiced air of the statement.

To his relief, the barkeep smiled, extending his hand across the scarred wood. "David O'Keefe. Don't mind where ya were born in the least, and I don't kneel to no Taig try to tell me I should, neither. I think you'll find some friends here, McKinnon."

"Call me Jack," Neville shook O'Keefe's hand strongly, but the sleeve of his t-shirt rolled slightly as he reached out his arm, and the other man's eyes widened as they saw the edges of the scars that curved over the back of his triceps, then flicked up to see more of the same at the collar of the shirt.

"Sure that's only reason ya came here, Jack?" he asked warily. "Carryin' a few interestin' mementos for someone who don't mind me, but don't look much more'tna boy, workin' lad though ya clear are."

He met O'Keefe's eyes unflinchingly, not hiding the resentment and anger that lingered as clearly as the scars that remained on his own body almost identically to Ernie's. "There are some people who think that the appropriate retaliation for a little grafitti is to horsewhip a bloke."

There was a hiss of fury, then O'Keefe's head raised, and he called out across the shadowy bar. "Sean, pull your head out your glass and move yourself over here!" A grumble and the scrape of a chair came in answer, and he turned back to Neville, nodding at the pint in front of them. "On the house for tonight. Take it as loyal Ireland's apologies for those Papist bastards."

Another man now slid onto the stool beside Neville, looking to likewise be somewhere in his early twenties, with skin so freckled and hair so brilliantly red that he could have been passed off instantly as a member of the Weasley family without a moment's question. "What's the business, Davey?"

"Sean Mulligan, meet Jack McKinnon: good Irish boy born in Mother England and wearin' a mess o' scars for darin' to call himself true to the Crown."

Mulligan's copper brows raised almost to the shock of fringe that tumbled over his forehead, and Neville nodded, rolling up his sleeve deliberately and turning his arm to show the scars more clearly. "Not particularly fond of the people who did this to me, as you can imagine."

"I'd fancy not," Mulligan said sarcastically, exchanging a knowing look with O'Keefe. "So you're wantin' to go marchin' with us next week, then?"

"Certainly a start," Neville nodded slowly, taking a deep sip of his ale. "Still, I don't really think those kind are going to be too impressed by walking around the neighborhood in bowler hats and orange sashes. I mean, they aren't exactly respecting the spirit of the Good Friday Accords, are they?"

"True on to that!" O'Keefe lifted his own half-filled pint glass from behind the bar, his voice bitter. "You know they're even tryin' lately to invent fairy tales to cover their cowardly arses?"

A thrill shot through Neville at this, but he kept his face only lightly quizzical. "Oh?"

"Two blokes in the last year, murdered right outside that very door. Loyal subjects o' Her Majesty and some o' the bravest men in the LVF, but they got carved like a Sunday roast and the authorities just say it's 'not consistent with the sectarian problems' an' call it a plain sicko while McKevitt's boys go blamin' ghosts."

"Ghosts.…" he paused, licking his lips before he managed to say the name outright. "You mean the Sluagh?"

"So you've heard o' the Chopsticks, then?"

Neville frowned. "What do the Chinese have to do with anything?"

"Not Chinese, Jack, not 'tall!" Mulligan laughed blackly. "Sort o' a third side to the Troubles, they are, and a new and bloody business 'tis. Some say they're ours, but I can swear t'ya that ain't so, and the Taigs swear ain't theirs neither, though I ain't so quick to believe that load. Sluagh's just the tip o' it. Rumor has it they're callin' for Unity on the old ways, an they've been tagged Chopsticks 'cause they do their dirty business with guns and knives and a bit o' a petrol kiss often enough, but they've also been said to fancy odd little sticks which prove nasty enough in their way, though not a mother's son can reckon just how they do what they do."

His heart was pounding, and Neville could feel the color drain from his face, his voice rougher than he wanted when he spoke again. "If I knew something more about this Sluagh, do you think you'd be able to help me find him?"

Another look was exchanged between the two men, then Mulligan lifted his shirt, revealing a tattoo on his chest directly over his heart; a clenched fist inked in brilliant crimson as vivid as blood above the words  _No Surrender_. "It'd be worth takin' ya straight to the top if ya had somethin' real, 'twould. Fairy tale or real lily-wearin' bastard, ain't no friend o' King Billy."

His instincts had rarely failed him, but Neville's hand was still shaking as he reached into his pocket and pulled out Ernie's wand, laying it flat on the bar between them. "Is this what you mean by a Chopstick?"

There was a long, laden silence, then O'Keefe let out a low whistle, his eyes unable to tear away from the smoothly carved oak as he nodded. "Aye, Jack, that'd be real enough."


	4. Going Under

Getting to "the top" was an even more nerve-wracking experience than Neville had expected. Mulligan had called two other very large, very burly men, whom he was introduced to as Gary Fitzmichael and Danny Kilroy, and despite their eagerness and agreement when they had seen the wand, they had taken strong precautions against their new 'friend.' His hands had been bound behind his back with a strong, silvery tape that he recognized with a sickening shiver as the same substance Colin had once used to try and bind the wound when he had been splinched, but even with Ernie's greater strength, he was unable to budge it after they had wrapped it dozens of times around his wrists in a thick, metallic wad.

A scrap of cloth was next tied over his eyes, and he was led into the back of a Muggle vehicle that closed him into a bumping, rattling, echoing chamber that smelled of stale sweat and exhaust as they rattled over the uneven streets for what seemed like hours. When they finally arrived at wherever they arrived, the ordeal was still not over. The blindfold and bonds were removed, but another man whose name he did not know held him at the point of an unpleasant-looking gun while a middle-aged gentleman in military fatigues with a red cross on the shoulder patch stripped off his clothes and conducted an extremely intimate inspection of every inch of his body.

He had only managed to keep his wand by warning them severely that they were personal, even quasi-sentient items, and that terrible things could happen to anyone else who tried to lay hands on it, not to mention that he would utterly refuse to tell them anything if it were confiscated. This was met with protest at first, but a carefully non-verbal Stinging Jinx had proven his words well enough to Fitzmichael, and thankfully, they did not really seem to understand exactly how powerful an object it was, nor how easily a wizard wielded it. The idea that he would have to perform elaborate and easily-prevented rituals to use magic was one that he did not make any effort to correct, as a few quick Confundus Charms proved the only thing which allowed his Galleon, his father's watch (kept less even for sentimentality than the need for its hourly alarm) and flask of Polyjuice to survive the inspections.

The Muggle money Hermione had given him was taken, as was his map to the hostel, his photograph of Hannah – with a great deal of exclaiming over the way it smiled and waved – and both the ankle-sheathed knife and the secondary blade adhered to the small of his back. They even found the Knut-sized Summoning Amulet he wore as an Auror which was meant to allow a disarmed wizard to retrieve his wand, refusing to accept that it could not be a detonator or wire and slicing it from beneath the thin skin of his forearm before smashing it underfoot.

After they had stripped and checked him, he was pressed against a bare concrete wall, and they took several pictures of the scars on his back and the one at his hairline, then forced his hands onto a pad of black ink before smearing them on sheets of paper. This, he was informed with almost alarming politeness, was nothing more than a precaution, both so they could identify his body if he were to 'wind up a bit o' a martyr, so to speak', and also, he was told more sternly, so they would know if the marks taken from his hands ever turned up on anything done by the much-loathed 'Taigs.' Double-agents, it seemed, were neither unknown nor exactly well-tolerated.

Finally, after all this, he was given not his own clothes, but a set of ill-fitting fatigues printed in a variety of tan blotches, then lead, still barefoot, into a dark room, where he was locked in and left to wait. His hands had been left unbound, though his wrists were still raw from the tape, and he raised his wand, muttering " _Lumos!"_ to fill the space with a cool blue light. What he saw made him shudder violently, bending over and fisting his hands on his knees as his head swam and stomach clenched with the urge to be sick.

It was a slaughter-room.

Every surface was polished concrete, rings sunk deep into the walls where the animals were tethered, and doors at either side that he didn't need to check to know were locked. It had the worn look of a place that had been scrubbed thousands of times, and the smell of bleach had become permanent, but so had the smell of blood and the stains that had been repeated too many times to be erased. They were deepest on the floor, which sloped down to a drain at the center of the room, and he suddenly hated his own magic violently, because maybe he wouldn't have known what this room was if he had been a Muggle, but he could  _feel_ it, he could  _sense_ the thousands of deaths that had occurred here, and oh, Merlin, but they weren't all animal.

"So it makes a lovely torch, it does, but what else can ya do with it, Jackie darlin'?"

Neville startled, his heart hammering in his ears as the voice sounded from a small, slotted box he had not seen before. It was mounted high in one corner of the room, a contraption below it that seemed to stare at him through a single glass eye over a tiny red light that glowed steadily. He sucked in a deep breath, gathering himself defiantly. "Whoever you are, I don't much like your idea of hospitality. If this is how you treat friends, I don't think I want to show you anything after all."

The box gave a tinny laugh, then the room was abruptly bathed in a harsh, white light from long tubes set in the concrete ceiling, and the voice came again, casually superior and patronizing. "Now lad, don't get your dander up. We've got our plenty reasons to be careful, we do, and you've nothin' to fear so long's you're not plannin' no funny business. Ya ought be flattered, true enough. A fellow don't usually get so far's this without bein' one o' us for a lot longer than a few hours. But I don't be seein' ya have a lot o' choices at the moment, point 'o fact. Ya don't know where ya are, nor do your own Ma, so best be doin's ya said ya would and showin' us what that Chopstick proper does, 'swell's whatever 'tis ya know o' the Sluagh."

After a moment's consideration of his meager options, Neville's jaw set, and he stripped off his shirt, setting it on the floor in front of him and pointing his wand at it. With a flick, the shirt levitated into the air, and he moved it back and forth a few times, turning it in the air before letting it settle to the floor again and facing the box once more. "There. Now are you going to let me see someone, or am I going to wind up forgetting anything else it might do? I don't handle stress well, you know."

For a long time, there was silence, then the doors on one end of the room opened, and three men entered. Two were the ones he had been introduced to at the Kimberley Bar, Fitzmichael and Kilroy, both armed with heavy Muggle guns attached to straps over their shoulders and long bands of gleaming ammunition that trailed with a snake-like hiss across the concrete floor. The third was a stranger, but he was also clearly the one in charge, and Neville knew before he opened his mouth that this was the man whose voice had issued from the little box. He was tall and as powerfully built as the young wizard whose body Neville now wore, his dark hair cropped almost to the scalp, his age impossible to determine as anywhere between twenty-five and forty.

He nodded his head at his prisoner with a small, lopsided smile. "You're quite the plucky boy, aren't ya, Jackie? I'm Billy Ulster, leader o' a sweet lot o' boys known by the Red Hand Defenders, and it seems ya wanted a word?"

"Billy Ulster?" Neville repeated skeptically. "Why do I doubt that's what's on your birth certificate?"

"If it be or if it ain't," the man replied coolly, "ain't no difference to ya. So why don't we all play nice now? Ain't no call for hard words 'tween blokes what feel all same about the Queen in London and the Pope in Rome."

"I was told you could help me find the Sluagh," Neville said.

"Ah, now, that's not how I heard it. They told me ya had the information and what we had to offer were a chance to get fair even for what's decoratin' your back." Ulster took an easy step into the room, and Neville decided the time was right for a small show of real power, to turn the balance more in his own favor before the other man could feel too sure of himself.

He was careful to keep his face perfectly composed, showing no effort whatsoever as he waved the wand, conjuring two comfortable stools from thin air, then gesturing to them expansively. "Why don't we have a seat, Ulster, and we can talk about this like gentlemen. There really is no need for bodyguards or posturing with each other. You're right…we're on the same side, and we both have things the other wants. So let's be done with the nonsense and get down to business."

Ulster was clearly rattled, his eyes widened more than Neville was sure he wanted, the color drained from his stubble-shadowed cheeks, but he hadn't risen to the head of his underground militia by being a coward, and he quickly recovered himself. Almost casually, he waved at the two thugs, sending them away wordlessly, then settling himself onto one of the stools as if they were nothing at all he hadn't seen a thousand times before. "Fair enough, ya are. So what have ya for me, and what are ya wantin'?"

"I can't give you magic," Neville said bluntly. "If that's what you want, you're out of luck. And it's not that I'm holding out. It's not something you can give. You're born with it or you aren't, and it's really, really rare. Don't get any bright ideas about trying to force it out of me to use it that way, either…if I'm in pain, if I'm really proper frightened, if I can't concentrate, it won't work for dung. And the same, frankly, if I don't really want to."

For a moment, Ulster considered this, looking deeply into Neville's eyes, his fingers tugging contemplatively at his lower lip. "There's some," he said slowly, "what'd say that ain't so. That any true Celt –"

"Have you never heard of anyone making unrealistic promises to recruit?"

"Aye," Ulster nodded, "but I'd have said it'd be unrealistic enough if someone told me there were such thing as magic 'tall."

"All right." Neville stood, flipping the wand in his hand to turn the handle outwards. "Take it. I'm assuming you're Celtic blood enough. I'll even tell you a real spell:  _Flagrate._ It burns a mark into objects. Point the wand at me, at the wall, at whatever you want and say it,  _mean_ it, try it until you're blue in the face. I'm not worried."

His eyes narrowed, Ulster took the wand, then jabbed it fiercely directly at Neville's face. " _Flagrate!"_

Nothing happened, nothing at all, and the young wizard smiled easily, taking the wand back and spinning to slash it across the wall behind him. " _Flagrate!"_ Instantly, orange fire shot from the tip, blazing a deep, scorching trail across the concrete and leaving a glowing path as though red-hot embers had been embedded within the solid barrier. Spinning the wand lightly between his fingers, Neville turned back and sat down on the stool again, smiling. "Change your mind, Ulster?"

For a moment, there was something there that looked like fear, but it was gradually replaced by a bright, greedy gleam, and Ulster laughed, leaning forward with his elbows propped on his knees. "That I have, and oh, Jackie, darlin', I see a blessed future ahead for us indeed. As a matter o' fact, I think I might just be takin' ya along on a party we're plannin' tonight as a bit o' a show 'o good will for ya, and then we can have a long, long talk about our mutual friend the ghosty."

OOO

"--exactly like you were with the house-elves, Ron! Just because something's been a certain way for eight hundred years doesn't make it right."

"Hermione, this whole thing's been sorted out. If they want their own country, they've  _got_ one! If they don't want to be part of the UK, they can move, and not move too bloody far, either."

"The Irish shouldn't have to move out of Ireland to be Irish! It's ridiculous! This entire thing is nothing more than a bunch of stupid, pig-headed men who won't let go of the old Colonial complex that I usually like to think we've gotten over in the twenty-first century. The crown just needs to accept that Belfast is as much a part of Ireland as Dublin and let it go peacefully and stop all this bloodshed."

"I suppose we should just knuckle under to violence, then? Teach people that if they make enough of a mess of it, we'll tuck tail and --"

"Shut up, both of you!" Neville snapped harshly at his two friends as he approached the table, not bothering to greet them before pulling out a chair and turning it around to sit backwards on it, his arms crossed over the back and his chin resting tiredly on them. "You're being bloody idiots."

Ron's face was flushed with indignation, and Hermione looked positively scandalized, her mouth moving several times before she managed to speak. "Neville! I was just trying to explain to Ron that --"

"I heard." His scowl deepened. "And neither one of you know what you're talking about."

"And I suppose," Ron retorted sarcastically, "that you've become an expert on the matter in the last twenty-four hours?"

"No, I haven't, and that's the point." Neville rubbed at his forehead, trying in vain to dispel the headache knotted tightly there. "What I have learned is that none of this has anything to do with what flag is flying over the capital at Belfast, though, and that not you or I or Hermione or anyone else who hasn't lived here our whole lives has a chance in hell of sorting through who's right or wrong...if anyone is, and I'm starting to really strongly suspect that there  _is_  no right side to this disaster."

Hermione's look of offense had been replaced by one of growing concern, and she waved away Ron's gathering rebuttal as she leaned in closer to him, brushing her hand over his forehead and pushing back the curls in a rather maternal gesture. "Neville, what happened last night? Something's really wrong with you if you're acting like this."

He looked up, making no effort to hide the guilt and pain in his eyes. "Something's really wrong with all of this, Hermione. I guess the only good news is that I'm definitely in with the RHD. Didn't even get dropped off back at the hostel until almost four in the morning, and I still haven't been able to sleep."

Ron's eyes glittered with eagerness, even as he maintained an expression of solemn worry. "Anyone there you think our old mate might like using for a knife sharpener?"

"Billy Ulster would be my number one pick," Neville replied, then waved a hand, cutting them off before either one could say anything. "I know it's a pseudonym, and I'm going to do what I can to find out who he really is, but I can tell you he's no fairy prince. They took me on one of their 'little parties' last night. Went to a Catholic school and they had me break the windows so they could throw fireworks inside."

"That doesn't sound all that bad," Ron said cautiously, "I mean, yeah, sure, vandalism's wrong and all, but --"

"It was a boarding school, Ron. They were throwing the fireworks into the girl's dorms, deliberately terrifying and torturing fourteen and fifteen year old girls just because they happened to be Catholic. You could hear them screaming and crying and sobbing and running, and those blokes were just laughing about it and yelling up at them the most horrible names and things and saying they were going to come up there and...it was just sick." He hung his head, feeling the hot flush of shame on his cheeks for having been part of it. "And I feel all the worse," he confessed, "that I used magic to do it. It's like I dirtied a part of myself that should be something good, which is stupid, I mean, for Merlin's sake, I've used the  _Killing Curse_  before."

Hermione sat up so straight and suddenly that she knocked her coffee off the table, not even noticing as the paper cup bounced on the cobblestone plaza, the lid popping off and sending a little wave of foamy cappuccino over the stones and scattering a handful of nearby pigeons. "YOU WHAT?"

"They had bricks," he shrugged, "the  _Diffendo_  probably did less damage in the end, but --"

"Neville, that's not the point!" Hermione's voice was alarmingly shrill, and Ron winced. "You used  _magic_  right out in the  _open_ with a group of Muggle  _terrorists?!_ That...that...that... _"_ she sputtered in horror, trying and failing to find a way to describe how badly he had broken the rules. "That is  _not good!"_

"The Statute of Secrecy was a moot point already," Neville sighed. "And we can pretty much chuck it as long as we're looking at these real fringe groups for the time being. I don't mean we just wave our wands right here in the open and pick up your coffee, Hermione, but it's become open knowledge among the paramilitia that it exists. They've even given a name to the wizards who are involved in this -- they call us 'Chopsticks' because of the wands. It was actually how I got in with them, and how I bypassed what would apparently have been at least six months of initiation before I would have been allowed to meet anyone half as important as this Billy Ulster bloke. They were falling all over themselves to have a Chopstick on their side."

"So they're all on the other side, then." Ron crossed one long leg over the over, leaning forward with his elbow balanced on his knee and his hand in his chin as he regarded Neville intently. "You reckon this is the sort of thing that we might need to talk to Shacklebolt about seriously maybe letting the Muggle authorities know? I mean, if Sinn Fein is using dark wizards --"

"It's not Sinn Fein, Ron, and the lot I was out with last night aren't the UDA." Neville met his friend's eyes firmly. "Those are political groups. These are little cells of vicious thugs -- gangs really, almost cults -- who just use the Troubles as an excuse for a lot of violence and a lot of personal hatreds. And I don't know if the RIRA or the PIRA or any of the other Nationalist groups have dark wizards or not. It really seems to be a third side, maybe even a third and a fourth against that. Maybe Seamus is right, maybe it's not, maybe he's created the same thing he's supposedly against and it's real  _now_ , or maybe it's only said to exist because it's in his mind and he and whoever he's got following him keep ranting about it. I really wish I knew."

A long silence followed his resigned sigh at the end, but eventually, Hermione reached out and placed a hand on his arm, her dark eyes soft and sympathetic. "Do you want a sandwich, Neville? A coffee?" The gentle question caught him completely off guard, and he stared blankly at her for several seconds before he finally shook his head.

"No. Really not hungry after last night. But thanks." He glanced around the table, feeling almost embarrassed for his rant. "How about you guys? I've been such a prat, I didn't mean to –"

"Don't worry about it, mate, really." Ron waved his hand dismissively, "sounds like you had a hell of a night. I'd be a bit testy myself. Might be able to offer you something, though."

Neville raised one eyebrow, intrigued. "Oh?"

"It's Hermione's credit, really. She's the one that dug it out of the Muggle police files…she can make sense of routing numbers and all kinds of crap on those forms that just makes my head hurt."

"There's a mole in the PSNI," she informed him almost cheerily. "One of Seamus', we're sure of it. Every one of the files for the Muggles who were killed were processed in some way within six weeks of their death by the same clerk. He's feeding information on potential sectarian targets, and I think that if we use that as a starting point and try to trace up --"

Ron's eyes had narrowed slowly as she talked, then he suddenly struck the table with the flat of his hand, making her jump and yelp as he let out a shout of triumphant inspiration. "Got it! Dammit, Neville, I've got it!"

"What?" Neville demanded.

"We don't turn in our ferrety little friend. We use him, 'cause with Neville, we've got an inside bloke now in one of the exact sort of places the Sluagh likes to go hunting. So we use Neville to get information on this Billy Ulster or someone else that looks like it might stir his cauldron, and we make damned sure that every nasty, graphic, gory, tempting detail gets passed right through the dirty clerk. Then Neville helps us angle things to get him in a certain place at a certain time, make sure  _that_  gets passed on and looks like a really sweet opportunity, and we pull a switch at the last second."

"I don't know, Ron…" Hermione hesitated, biting her lip in worry. "There are so many things that could go so, so, so wrong with that idea."

"Mad brilliant, Weasley!" Neville smiled, squeezing his friend and fellow Auror warmly on the shoulder. "Two pixies with one hex, I love it. Hand Ulster to the PSNI and Finnigan to us, and in the mean time, we've gotten a lot more of their vicious little spiderwebs unwoven."

"You'll have to stick with them, Neville," Hermione warned darkly, "Earn and keep their trust. There's likely to be a lot more like last night, maybe even worse. Do you think you could do it?"

" _After_ last night, something's got to stop them," he said resolutely. "Maybe it's just one group or even one bad man in one group, but that's still a lot of suffering we can put an end to if we don't chicken out here, not to mention catching Seamus before he blows this entire thing up into an all-out wizard-Muggle war. And I don't even want to think about if there's any scrap of truth in being able to use the old Druidic stuff to give magic to Muggles, not after I've seen what  _those_  kind of Muggles can do with just bricks and words and fireworks. They really don't need hexes and jinxes on top of it."

"So that settles it, then." Hermione stood, shaking out her skirt a little nervously as she picked up the coffee cup and chucked it in a nearby bin. "Ron and I will get back to the Auror Division and start tracing our little rat's network as far as we can without alerting him, and make sure that anything that comes from us about the RHD goes straight to him. And I'll let the PSNI know what we're doing too so that we don't get undermined if their own investigations find out he's dirty and decide to give him the chop."

"You watch your back, Neville," Ron stood as well, shaking Neville's hand with a quick hug that clapped him firmly on the back, but still could not hide the genuine concern. "If this starts to get to you…."

"Thanks, Ron, I mean it," Neville nodded and returned the embrace, not even needing the remainder of the sentence to understand his friend's offer. He gave a brief hug to Hermione as well, then started to go, turning back at the last moment. "One more thing."

Hermione's bushy ponytail swung behind her as she spun back to him a little too quickly. "Yes, Neville?"

"Can magic get rid of a tattoo?"

She frowned a moment, considering, then nodded. "If it didn't go away on its own when the Polyjuice wore off, which I'm not sure of."

"Good," Neville said simply. "I wouldn't want to have to explain to Hannah why I'd been forced to slice that much skin off my chest after this is over."

OOO

"Jackie!" Neville turned on the steps of the hostel, scanning the street for a confused moment before he saw Sean Mulligan waving to him from across the street, barely glancing both ways long enough to avoid being run down as he jogged across, grinning brightly. "Glad I caught ya. Landlady said she didn't know where ya'd gone, but there was a wop in there said ya might be goin' to the Uni to hunt a flat, and I didn't want to be too late."

The breezy, friendly manner after the previous night's violence set him aback, and he frowned in suspicious confusion. "Too late for what?"

"To apologize, ya daft bugger," Mulligan laughed. He held out a bundle wrapped in the previous day's  _Belfast Telegraph_. "Talkin' with the lads this mornin' after we dropped ya off, and we felt like proper bastards, we did. Treatin' ya like a bloody mackerel-snapper when ya were come to help us. Aye, true enough we didn't know at first if we could trust ya and we were takin' ya high without no proper time to know ya, but still, we ought'ta have apologized and been a bit more polite about it, seen's you're on our side and all."

Neville had opened the package, and as he looked inside, he discovered to his surprise that it was everything that had been taken from him the previous night, down to the last Muggle banknote, all neatly folded and carefully arranged, the clothes even smelling clearly of having been just freshly laundered and pressed. His eyebrows lifted in unexpected gratitude. "Thanks, that's really decent of you."

"Promise ya, we don't usually truss up our friends. But you're sure enough that, Jackie." Mulligan slung an arm over Neville's shoulder, and there was a genuine, almost brotherly warmth in his smile. "Billy's told us ya can't do naught with the Chopstick if you're heart ain't in it, and I've got to say I'm impressed. Ya must really care about the cause beyond them things on your back, cause it weren't no papist schoolgirls what put them there...but neverthatmind. We've things to do."

He started down the street, pulling Neville with him, too dismoored to protest at first, but then he stopped, digging in his heels and shaking off the other man's arm. "Wait! Wait...where are we going? What things?"

"You're wantin' a place to stay, aren't ya?"

Neville gestured back towards the hostel. "I've got a place."

"A  _real_ place," Mulligan said patiently, "where ya ain't sharin' with a half-dozen foreigners and linin' up to take a piss. Not to mention a job to go with, presumin' ya want a bit o' tin in your pockets for a pint now and then, or to buy summat for the pretty lass in the picture."

"Those would be nice," Neville agreed slowly.

"Grand!" Mulligan grinned again, and it was, he realized, an incredibly charming smile, deep-dimpled and sincere, making his eyes sparkle and lighting up his whole visage so brightly that it seemed impossible that this had been the man making such obscene threats against innocent young girls only hours ago. It was surreal, and yet he found himself smiling back as they started down the street again. "Now it ain't no fancy desk job Billy got ya, but a lad don't get a body hard and tight's a nun's box like yours by bein' afraid o' hard work...it's haulin' cargo down at the port, the pay's not half bad for an honest day's work, and Kevin's willin' to wave your half the rent for the first month if ya want to take him up on the second bedroom in his flat down on Harding. What say?"

"I'd say," he admitted, "that's incredibly generous of you...I'm a little stunned, really."

"Not a word, Jackie, not a word!" Mulligan shook his head emphatically, pushing back the fringe that fell heavily into his eyes at the gesture. "Have ya had lunch?"

"No, but I'm..."

"Meetin' someone?"

"No, I just --"

"Then you're comin' with me and keepin' your hand in your pocket, ya are. I know a lovely place down by the Uni where ain't a word in Queen's English, and don't ya know that's the best way to find decent slant beak, 'tis."

Neville blinked, tilting his head as he wondered if he had understood the young man properly. "You mean  _Chinese_  food?"

"Cla! Miles better than that boiled beef and mortar ya call food over in Yorkshire, if ya won't be too insulted. They've a dim sum menu goes on for days, and all fresh's a virgin's gee."

It was clear there was no point in arguing, especially as they were already quite a way's from the hostel, and he merely nodded, despite having no idea what dim sum even was, and being distinctly uncertain if he would like it. Besides, he needed to stay in Mulligan's good graces, though it was clear that was going to be less of a problem than he had expected after what had been the seeming hostility of his initial reception into the organization. "Do you guys always do this much for people, or is it just that I've got magic?"

"It ain't ya Chopstick, Jackie, that's just what got ya in't door," Mulligan assured him. "Ain't many of us what's willin' to take a stand against the Finian bastards, so's we look out for each other, ya follow? Ain't no good a one o' us not havin' a gaff or a job when a brother can give him a touch."

He nodded contemplatively, mulling over this for a few moments as he regarded his new...friend? No, that wasn't quite right, but comrade seemed even more wrong, and contact was just too impersonal for someone who was offering to feed, house, and employ him after less than a day's aquaintance.

"What got you into it?" he asked finally. "Seeing you like this today, I mean..." he hesitated, then just went ahead, "...you don't seem the same man you were last night."

"You mean I seem too nice a bloke to've been hollerin' about horsin' it in the giblits to a bunch o' cherries?"

"Uh...yeah."

For the first time that day, the smile vanished from Mulligan's face, but it was not the hardened, angry expression he had also seen that replaced it. Instead, he looked vulnerable, quiet, and as it sometimes did on rare occasions, it struck Neville that despite his own experiences, being in one's early twenties was still very young indeed. "It were me brother."

He felt reluctant to push, but there was an unspoken offer that he could either leave it at that or ask for more, and he knew he needed to find out as much about these people as he could. "What about your brother?"

"Feckin' murdered, he were," Mulligan spat into the gutter without breaking stride, but his freckled cheeks had grown brightly flushed, and Neville was strongly reminded of Seamus, not in the flush itself, but in the readiness with which emotions came. He had never really given much thought to the fabled 'English reserve', but he was beginning to see that it wasn't just his ex-roommate who wore his heart so readily on his sleeve, but rather the entire country. It was frightening in a way, how passionate they could be, how quickly their feelings flared and changed, and how clearly they displayed them in both demeanor and their extremely colorful use of what could at times barely be called English at all.

"By the IRA?"

"Feckin' dose. I were only ten years old, but that were some o' the worst times, it were. Late eighties, ya couldn't go a day without some piece o' shite makin' problems on good Proddy boys. Laid him to wake on his way home from work, and come find out we did they didn't even put it to the right Brian Mulligan, but damned if they ever apologized." The bitterness turned to a sing-song lightness that Neville recognized as being actually the darkest kind of sarcasm. "But o' course, we're s'posed to kiss'n make up all dandy 'soon they had their little Good Feckin' Friday Accords. Tra la la and don't ya know everythin's a bag o' schwag."

Mulligan sniffed harshly, then cuffed at his eyes, shaking his head. "But ya don't need my ballsch, you've got reasons o' your own, and it's too grand a day. Gander!" He pointed down the street, and Neville saw a bright red banner hanging over one of the shopfronts, painted in elaborate Chinese characters he couldn't begin to understand.

"Is that the restaurant?"

"That 'tis, and remember what I said: hand in your pocket, and I'll take the orderin' if you'll trust me out, seen's ya haven't had the like before. Can ya handle a bit o' spice?"

Neville's own grin came easily now for the first time since he had returned to Belfast. "Do you know what  _Brassica oleracea var. carnivorus_  is?"

"Not a clue!" Mulligan confessed easily.

"It's a kind of magical cabbage, and I once ate two raw leaves on a dare in my fourth year at school. Blisters in my mouth for a week. I can handle whatever you've got, Mulligan."

"Ah, Jackie, boy, call me Sean," the smile turned positively diabolical. "And don't ya know I'm goin' to make you eat them words."

OOO

"What're ya playin' at, Jackie? Didn't I tell ya we were goin' out tonight?" Neville turned at the sound of the voice as he zipped up the fatigues he had been given for the raid on the school, confused at the tone of reproach. Sean Mulligan was standing in the open door of the bathroom, a rather badly worn once-white towel slung around his narrow hips as he scrubbed at his short hair with another, even more threadbare scrap of terrycloth. He had appointed himself the new recruit's unofficial caretaker, announcing he would be billeting on the couch until Neville was properly settled in with his new flatmate, Kevin Dooley, and strutting around with a confidence that seemed less an indication of his authority in the RHD than simply an irrepressible part of his nature.

"I know," Neville said, bending and lifting his trouserleg enough to show the knife secured at his ankle. "I'm getting ready, like you said. Do we know what the target is?"

There was a baffled pause, then Sean laughed, chucking the towel across the room at Neville's head. "You feckin' tool! The bleedin'  _target's_ gettin' the flute played, not scarin' the knickers back on every bird in the place! I told ya it were a feckin' club, didn't I?"

"Well, yeah…" he agreed slowly, "…but I thought it was still…."

"Look, mate," Sean crossed to him and slung an arm over Neville's shoulders jovially, but with a distinctly worldly superiority, "I admire your enthusiasm, 'struth I do, but we'll all bust our clankers if we don't take a bit 'o fun now and then. Strip off that lot – though you might be wise to keep the sticker if there's a good-natured donny – and get on somethin' for dancin'."

Neville's eyes widened, and he ran through the contents of the rucksack in his mind quickly before he shook his head. "Sorry, I don't think I have anything formal."

"Oh, Jesus wept, Jackie." Sean's head dropped forward with an exaggeratedly sorrowful shake. "What've they done to ya out there in the Queen's bollocks o' Yorkshire? Ain't ya ever been  _out?_ "

"I guess not," he shrugged.

"Mark me five."

Before he had a chance to ask what that meant, Sean had vanished, and he was forced to wait, wondering in growing trepidation exactly what he had gotten himself into before the other young man reappeared, holding out a bundle of clothing that when Neville unfolded it did exactly the opposite of dispelling his concerns. They were a pair of trousers made of some kind of shiny black artificial leather, as well as a white sleeveless undershirt made of incredibly thin cotton, both of which seemed ludicrously too small for him to ever squeeze his own lean form into, much less Ernie's far more considerable bulk. "Sean," he protested, "these are way too –"

"'Course they'll be tight! Set o' eye-blackers like that, ya ought!" Sean smacked the back of his hand against Neville's stomach, but he just continued to stare incredulously at the clothing.

"Eye-blackers?"

Sean flexed his own stomach rather proudly, making the muscles stand out more clearly and striking them with his clenched fist. "Hard enough t' black a bird's eye while she's bobbin'." He pumped the fist at his mouth and jerked his hips in a graphic explanation that made Neville's face flush hotly in sudden understanding.

The outfit was even more intimidating once he had managed to get it on than it had been in his hands. Although the body he currently occupied wasn't even his own, and there was certainly nothing to be ashamed of in Ernie's muscled physique, he felt almost naked, the trousers and shirt adhering so closely that nothing whatsoever was left to the imagination, only the tops of his combat boots allowing him to keep the ankle sheath hidden. His wand and flask were tucked into the opposite boot, but the Galleon in his pocket was outlined clearly, and he imagined it wasn't impossible that he could make out the image of Gradnack the Great through the black material. He chewed his lip, turning in the mirror and brushing his fingertips over the scars on his shoulders. "Do you think it's really appropriate to wear in publ –"

"Feckin' Guillermo, ya are. Now c'mon!" Sean was himself now clad in an identical sleeveless white undershirt with pair of blue jeans so tight and yet tattered that they appeared in imminent mortal danger of thread-splitting demise, and he tossed Neville a black leather jacket that was also similar to his own. "Let's go, the lads'll be here any second."

To his questionable relief, when the car did arrive, it was clear that their attire was the rule rather than any kind of obscene misjudgment on Sean's part, but the vehicle itself did not appear the wisest idea. It was splotched with broad patches of rust, the bonnet held down with wide swaths of silvery tape, and though he was far from an authority on Muggle transportation, he was quite certain that neither the noises that clanked over the loudly blaring, pulsing music nor those burning smells were signs of good repair. Sean seemed to share his opinion, making a face at the driver. "Jesus, Mark, this thing's uglier than me dead uncle's barse."

"Fancy walkin'?" came the cheerful retort. "Shove in!"

There were already five young men crammed into the interior, but in what seemed like magic itself, Neville, Sean, and Kevin all managed to jam themselves in. No sooner had the door closed behind them the car set off with a high-pitched squeal and a whiff of charred rubber, rocketing off down the narrow port streets so wildly that the passengers were only saved from being flung against the sides by the fact that there was scarcely room to breathe.

Neville was terrified, certain they were about to die violently as one-way arrows were blithely ignored, corners spun out, the speedometer pegging red on the M at over 100mph, and even the sidewalk itself mounted a few times once they were back in town. His fellow passengers seemed elated, urging on their suicidal chauffeur with whistles and shouts. After a while, to his own amazement, he felt the adrenaline starting to get to him as well in a dizzying kind of rush, and he was startled to hear himself yell out not in admonition but congratulations as they whipped past an oncoming lorry so closely that there was a gush of sparks from the car's battered side. It was mad, it was reckless, it was stupid beyond words, but it was almost like battle in its way, kissing death so passionately that it made you feel all the more alive.

When at last they came to a stop, spinning to a halt in a gravel car park, he piled out with the rest of them, standing on watery legs but grinning wildly as they laughed and pounded one another on the back in giddy disbelief that they had all managed to survive to their destination. Mark was hoisted up on their shoulders in adulation of his dubious talents at the wheel, and they set off towards the club with a raucous chorus of something that Neville knew none of the words to but found himself singing along with nonetheless, scarcely aware of the morbid lyrics.

"… _so you think you can stomp me and spit in my eye?_  
So you think you can love me and leave me to die?  
Oh, baby, can't do this to me baby,  
Just gotta get out, just gotta get right outa here…"

They heard the club before they saw it, and in fact, despite the noise that thundered from within, Neville would have passed it by completely if he had not been with the other men. It was tucked into a shadowy alley between what seemed to be two abandoned warehouses, the unmarked steel door guarded by a tattooed Asian man who towered at no less than six foot four, his strength massive and unquestionable enough that he could have taken any two of them despite the heavy belly that stretched his black t-shirt. When he saw them, however, his dour face split into a wide grin, and he greeted several of them by name as he opened the door and waved them inside like old friends.

Neville felt as though the music had hit him with the power of a physical punch. He could  _feel_ it, thrumming in his skin, shivering his bones, throbbing through him like a second pulse with a volume more overwhelming than any Sonorus Spell. There weren't even words, it could barely be called music, unnatural and eerie, more a chant of drums and strange beeps and wails that combined to a hypnotic rhythm of want and need and madness. It was a wholly disorienting experience; not just the sound, the awesome  _sound_ , but the flashing, strobing, whirling lights in a hundred colors and shapes, the thinner, slashing beams like the jets of careening spells, the hot, stuffy air that reeked of sweat and cologne and alcohol, the uncountable young people crammed skin to skin on the dance floor, arms waving and writhing, hips gyrating and hair tossing in soundless shouts and animal abandon.

It was an orgy, a bacchanal, a hedonistic sabbat, a scene from the heights of ecstasy or the pit of hell, and he had never seen, heard of, imagined in his wildest dreams anything like it. He was stopped barely a step inside the doorway, unaware and uncaring that he was staring blankly, his mouth hanging open, the perfect picture of shock. Sean saw and grabbed his arm, leaning in barely an inch from the side of his head and bellowing at the top of his lungs to make himself only scarcely heard. "Ya ever been anywhere like this before, Jackie?"

Dumbstruck, Neville shook his head, and Sean exchanged inaudible words with the other men before taking his arm again with the familiar broad grin and yanking him through what had seemed the impenetrable press of people. As he passed through the dance floor, he was rubbed, grabbed, caressed, pressed against by men and women alike, half of them not even seeming to notice him as they did it, and by the time they reached the bar at the far side of the club, he was incredibly grateful for the drink Sean placed in front of him, not knowing, feeling, tasting, or caring what it was as he tossed it back, eyes wide. "Merlin's beard, this is –"

"Ain't it just?!" Sean's head was nodding along with the beat, and he gulped back his own shot. "Just go with it, Jackie, your Ma ain't here, and if she be, don't ya know I'll be borin' her pissflaps to the wall tonight!" His expression was eerily beatific, almost innocently joyful, and the blue eyes closed, his head tipping back as he raised his arms over his head, his shirt riding up across his already sweat-shining torso as his hips bucked and twisted in what couldn't be called dancing so much as a partnerless sex act.

He was given – or maybe allowed – or maybe forced to have, he was reeling too much to know – three more shots, and there seemed to be at least a little more sense to how things went. Neville stayed put, clinging to the side of the cool chrome bar as though it were the last solid thing in the world, and Sean and the rest of the group flowed in and out around him, alternately clustering in for drinks and exchanging shouted comparisons of various women, then vanishing into the writhing pack and returning again sweaty and beaming and bragging of short skirts and no bras and more euphemisms than he had ever imagined the language capable of producing.

Finally, however, Sean seemed to notice that Neville had never left the bar, nor was he anywhere remotely near as drunk as the rest of them were blissfully becoming, and a frown flickered over his shining face. "You a knobjockey, Jackie?"

Neville shook his head, "Sorry, I don't –"

"One in the piccy ain't your sister, is she? Set o' proper fun bags on her, no ta!"

It suddenly made sense enough, and he replied so quickly and defensively that he only barely caught himself from saying she was his wife, substituting 'girl' at the last possible second as he assured Sean that no, Hannah was  _not_ his sister  _nor_ available, and that  _yes_  he was quite fond of women, just committed to one in particular. This didn't seem to deter the other man for a moment, and he just laughed, squeezing Neville's shoulder with a conspiratorial wink.

"What she don't know and I don't tell can't get ya sent down turd alley, it can't! Love o' Christ, Jackie, take a pull! Place is crawlin' with gee what's drippin' down their knees for a ride on the mickey, let out your clacks and go for it!"

He shook his head again, more firmly this time. "No way, Sean, I might dance a little later or something, but I'm fine, really."

"Feckin' bogger," the insult was delivered with genuine if friendly disbelief, and for a while, after Sean had disappeared again, he thought it had been left at an incomprehensible difference of opinion.

He really should have known better. The music had changed only once before not just Sean, but four of the others were back, women just as tightly and scantily clad as they themselves draped over their arms and chests, dripping sweat and streaked with glitter as they teetered slightly from the combination of towering heels and what had clearly been copious alcohol. The women were laughing and half-dancing as well, and there was a moment where something was being said that he couldn't hear over the noise, then the little cluster parted, and another girl was pushed forward into his arms.

She was, he recognized instantly, someone very much like himself who had been brought there with friends – probably the ones hanging over  _his_ associates – and was in far, far, far over her head. About his own age, maybe a year or two younger, her hair was short and bleached drastically blonde at the tips, her eyes rimmed in heavy layers of black and shocking violet that matched her skin-tight, sequined top and the skirt that could barely be considered more than knickers, but she seemed about as comfortable in the provocative get-up as he was in his own, and the gathered assemblage clearly considered themselves to be performing a profoundly charitable act for humanity as the two reluctant clubgoers were respectively shoved and manhandled away from the bar.

A door at the rear of the club was opened, and they were propelled out into a tiny, narrow alley that was no bigger than a small hallway. There was scarcely enough light for Neville to see his own hands in front of his face, much less the girl, and the brick walls reeked of sex and vomit and stale urine, the distinct sounds of moans and highly biological slaps and squishes from along the shadows telling him exactly what was expected even before Sean pressed a small foil packet into his palm. "Don't forget to cap the Johnny, mate, don't want no knobrot. Cla!"

Then the door closed, and he was alone – or at least, the invisible pairs of other clubgoers doing what they were obviously doing elsewhere in the alley really didn't seem to count – with the girl. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness after the chaos of the club, he saw that she had pressed herself as far back against the wall as she could without actually touching the filthy bricks, her arms crossed tightly over her chest and her eyes huge, her whole body shaking violently as she took in the thickness of his arms, the size of his hands, the width of his shoulders.

Neville started towards her, started to reach for her to soothe her blatant terror, but she let out a hysterical little scream that was barely more than a strangled squeak, the makeup tracing black lines down her cheeks as she began to sob. He stopped instantly, drawing back and raising his hands, palms out and open as he gave her his gentlest smile, hoping that she could see it in the near-total darkness. "Hey, love…" he kept his voice as quiet as he could with any hope of her hearing him over the noise from within, careful that no one else could overhear his words, "…I'm not gonna hurt you. I'm not gonna  _touch_ you, even. I'm an undercover Au – officer, and I'm very happily married, I swear."

The sobs stopped, and though she still remained clearly frightened, her head tilted curiously. "You're a copper? Y'aint goin' me for pills or naught, are ya? 'Cause I don't – "

"No, not at all," he assured her quickly. "It's something else entirely; has nothing to do with you. I'm not trying to arrest you any more than I'm going to rape you, I promise."

"God…." The word was a trembling sigh of relief, "I thought…."

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have let them get this far," Neville said sincerely, "I know the guys meant well, but –"

"Yeah, me girlfriends're fair like't…tarted me up and brought me out here swearin' I just needed a few drinks and a bang, say I spend too much time in me books." She shook her head with a nervous laugh. "And maybe I do, true enough, but not like this, ya know? It's too feckin' much for a girl from County Down, 'tis."

"Do you go to the Uni?"

"Aye. Studyin' Cultural Anthropology and Irish History, which's a fancy way o' sayin' I spend most o' me time up to me eyes tryin' to make out faded bunches o' Latin manuscripts and writin' papers on the old Druidic rituals that no one but me professors gives gobshite for. Me name's Laura, by the way," she wiped her cheeks on the back of her wrist, trying and only half-succeeding to repair the smears of her makeup.

"Jack," he supplied. "And I think that's fascinating, actually. I'm kind of into the same thing right now, in a way. I'd love to talk to you some more about it later, if you don't mind…and that's not a line, really. Like I said, I've got a wife."

"Give ya me number later, maybe…" Laura hesitated, glancing back at the door. "Ya reckon they'll be comin' back for us?"

He considered it a moment, then shrugged. "We should probably give it another minute or two, then honestly, I think it would be better if we let them think we'd – you know, that we'd done what they thought they were sending us out here to do. I mean, I'm not trying to –"

"No, no," she nodded briskly in understanding. "Get them off both our backs, 'twould. I don't mind half. Even give ya me knickers, if ya'd like."

Neville felt himself blush, then chuckled. "Probably not a bad idea. I'm so sorry, really I am."

"'S funny now that I ain't gonna get meself raped, 'tis," she giggled, then bent down quickly, her slight body wiggling oddly in the shadows before she straightened again, reaching out to press an astonishingly tiny scrap of lace and thin satin strings into his hand. "Here ya go. Trophy for your mates. Maybe we can even have a bit o' fun now, y'know…might like to dance with ya after all if I know ya ain't goin' for me dainties."

"Might be fun, yeah. Thanks a lot, Laura…and I hope you meant it about being willing to go for coffee later, I'm really interested in learning more about those Druidic –"

He was cut off by a loud crack, and for a moment, Neville thought with a rush of sudden adrenaline that someone had Apparated nearby, but it wasn't, it was a Muggle gunshot, and Laura's scream joined that of a half-dozen other women in the alley. The shot had come from the street beyond, and the flimsy knickers dropped forgotten to the cobblestones as he broke into a sprint.

Two more shots sounded by the time he reached the end of the alley, and there were more screams, then men's voices as well, raised in shouts of fury over the music. Tires squealed, an engine gunned, and as he broke into the yellow gleam of the streetlights, he barely caught the red blare of tail-lights as a dark car screamed away. Neville skidded to a halt, whirling to take in the situation, his heart pounding, every muscle tense as iron, ready to fight, to run, for anything.

Kevin and two of the other men from the RHD were there, the knives and pistols in their hands having come from nowhere, their 'dates' pressed against the wall in a tight huddle, clinging to one another and screaming hysterically, staring at a fourth figure that was crumpled on the sidewalk. Neville ran towards them, pausing only long enough to snatch his own knife from his ankle, barely catching the impulse to go for his wand instead. "What –"

"Feckin' arsetoddies got him!" Kevin's face was stark white even in the golden light, his expression contorted into a mask of hate and grief and rage that looked barely human. "Feckin' Pope's pussy cowards! Didn't even get outa the feckin' car!"

A low, anguished groan dropped his eyes to the sidewalk, and he fell to his knees, feeling the color drain from his own face. " _Sean…."_

The young man was curled into a tight ball, his eyes huge and vague with shock and pain as he looked up, blood gleaming darkly on his lips and coating the hands that were clenched tightly at his stomach. "Oh,  _Jesus,_ Jackie, t' hurts… _oh_   _Jesus…_ love o' mother, call triple nine, call t' feckin' ambulance, I'm hit, oh  _Jesus…."_

They could scarcely have been farther from Hogwarts, but in that moment -- staring down at the too-young face twisted in so much agony, smelling the copper-sweet blood on the night air, hearing the screams and shouts and epithets in an accent too thickened by rage to matter as foreign – the years and the miles ceased to matter. It was war, it was a man down, a comrade in pain, and he was a leader, a Commander, a soldier. His head snapped up, and his voice rang out strongly through the confusion with unimpeachable authority. "KEVIN! Get help, NOW!  _MOVE_!"

There was a scramble of movement, but he didn't bother to look to know his orders were being obeyed. Instead he kept his eyes on Sean as he reached into his boot and drew the wand, keeping it hidden in the shadows between them. "Do you trust me?" he whispered.

Sean nodded, and there was something childlike in the blue eyes so utterly helpless. "Like a brother, Jackie."

"All right." He slid the wand between the clenched hands, and there was a thin cry of pain as it touched the wound, then Neville closed his eyes, concentrating hard. _Asanguium._ There was a faint shimmer, a gleam of silver from the darkness, and Sean's eyes blinked incredulously, his voice a weak rasp of shock.

"Jesus, Jackie, 'taint bleedin' n'more!"

"I know. I can't risk trying to heal it all the way, I don't know enough about what's happened, but I've stopped the bleeding. I wish I could do more, I do, I know it still hurts –"

He cut off as one blood-soaked hand lifted from the wound, clamping hard on his wrist, eyes locking as intense and hypnotic as magic of their own. "Jackie –"

"Yes?"

"You'll get the feckin' cunts, won't ya? You'll see'm for this? They won't get by with it?"

"No," as if from a long way away, beyond some thin, distant voice that was crying protests he couldn't really hear, Neville nodded, knowing only vaguely that something about this was very, very wrong in a way that didn't matter with blood on his hands and the chill of a late spring night breeze prickling gooseflesh memories across skin that wasn't even his. "They won't get by with it."


	5. Nature of My Game

Neville had always hated hospitals. It was something that Hannah argued him about every time he got hurt with the Aurors, chastising him for taking wounds to her, handling them himself, or even going back to Hogwarts to visit the old school Healer, Madam Pomfrey, instead of going to St. Mungo's as he properly should have.

It wasn't that he didn't trust them there, or that he was afraid, but the place simply held too many memories; not only as a constant reminder of his parents' condition, but also how very, very many friends he had visited there after the battle. He couldn't explain how it was worse to see Fritz's arms ending in clean, tidy, gleaming white caps of bandages over stumps than it had been to see glimpses of charred bone poking through shards of ruined and roasted flesh, but it was. There was such a finality to hospitals. They were where you went when there was nothing else to do, when it was all over and the best that could be done was to neaten up the pieces.

Hospitals were where hope died.

And Muggle hospitals, he had discovered, were worse. It was as though all the despair and horror of a world without magic had been condensed into fifteen stories of yellow block on Lisburn Road, and Neville had never wanted so badly, so desperately to throw the Statute of Secrecy utterly to the wind. If he could have just gathered Sean in his arms, Apparated to St. Mungos, they'd have healed him completely by now, he'd be walking home and shaking his head and saying it had been a bloody close call, where do you lads want for breakfast?

Instead, he had been descended upon on the sidewalk by Muggle medics who had seemed more barbaric in their way than the people who had shot the young man in the first place. He wasn't Sean Mulligan, he was " _twenty-four year-old male, multiple abdominal gunshot trauma, unidentified bleeding irregularities,"_ and they had ignored his scream as they uncurled him and pulled his hands away, probing the wound with rubber blocking any humanity from their touch and cutting his clothes and strapping him to a board and stabbing things into his arms and shoving things down his throat and up his nose and it was all so cruel it couldn't possibly be healing or helping.

Neville and the others hadn't even been allowed to come with him in the flashing, wailing vehicle, forced to follow behind, and when they got to Belfast City Hospital, they were told they had to wait in Accident and Emergency, because he had been taken in to surgery, which he knew meant that they would be hurting him all the more, cutting him open and digging around his insides with hooks and knives. It made him sick to even think about, but he had to be the one to wait for the news, because all the others were outside, pacing in a thick cloud from cigarettes that followed one after the other, lit off the ends of the last and tossed to the ground only half-finished to manically start another.

Mrs. Mulligan had shown up about an hour after they had begun their vigil, and she looked at him the same way everyone else at hospital did, the way they also looked when they gave useless non-answers to his questions about Sean.  _You disgusting hoodlums, you brought this on yourselves, you're lucky we're better than you are or we would just let him die like he deserves._ The only sympathy seemed to be for his mother, though she oddly didn't seem to care half as much about her son as his friends outside, acting more like it was an annoyance than a possible tragedy.

Neville stared at her as she picked pieces off a chocolate bar from her handbag, her lips smacking unconsciously on each square while she rummaged through the out-of-date Muggle gossip magazines that lay on the tables of the almost wholly-deserted waiting area. She was perhaps barely past forty if you really paid attention, but at first glance she seemed closer to fifty-something, the lines on her face deep and harsh beneath way too much makeup and a black dye job that showed almost a half inch of her son's ginger at the roots. Her clothing might have been provocative on a woman twenty years younger and three stone lighter, but the bright yellow miniskirt and low-cut midriff top were just wrong and a little pathetic, and it made a lot more sense all of a sudden why his older brother had meant so much to Sean, why the RHD had called so strongly.

They, after all, were beside themselves with worry and vowing revenge, crying and clasping one another tightly, pacing and smoking and swearing and sobbing. His mother was picking bits of almond from between her teeth with one long, brilliantly pink fingernail and perusing photos of Muggle actors with their shirts off on tropical beaches. His father hadn't shown up at all.

The hours were marked only by sips of Polyjuice, time otherwise completely meaningless. A few other people came through the ward – a young man with his fist wrapped in a towel and shards of glass protruding from his knuckles, a couple with a screaming, scalded toddler who had pulled a hot teapot onto herself, a skeletally thin woman who was vomiting blood and slurring about pills, a heavy-set gentleman clutching his chest and puffing redly – but none of them seemed to even be quite real. After a while, Mrs. Mulligan pulled a long, thin cigarette from her handbag and began to light it, but the admittance nurse pointed her sternly to the no-smoking sign, and when she stepped outside, she did not come back. Neville decided not to tell Sean she had even been there. It seemed kinder.

At last, a middle-aged man with thinning hair and wearing the loose-fitting mint-green pajamas that seemed the hospital uniform appeared at the door, looking around and fixing Neville with an expression most people reserved for things that needed to be scraped off shoes. "You're with Mr. –" he checked the chart in his hands, "Mulligan?"

"I'm Sean's friend, yes," he answered a little defiantly, getting to his feet. "Is he going to be all right, sir?"

"Marvin Turley, I'm the JHD assigned to Mr. Mulligan. He's come through surgery well enough." The man's tone was clinical, and he had the feeling he was being lectured more than updated. It reminded him of Snape in a way, and he felt himself bristle even as he strove to keep his expression polite and open. "The first bullet took a chunk out of his liver before passing fairly cleanly out his back, but the second one required the removal of several sections of the small intestine as well as inflicting serious damage that may necessitate a later renectomy before lodging against the posterior pelvic wall with radiating fractures which have been plated. Vascular damage was surprisingly minimal, but he appears to have some form of clotting disorder which we are still running tests on. Blood loss should have been far more extensive, and we don't have an answer for that yet. What is his history of illegal drug abuse?"

"Unless you count that he had about a dozen shots and two pints tonight, none that I know of," he replied a little testily, "and I'm not local, but I thought gin, vodka, stout, and scotch were all perfectly legal and that not bleeding to death was a good thing." Neville crossed his arms, meeting the man's eyes evenly. "Can I see him?"

"Next of kin only, I'm sorry." Turley didn't sound sorry in the slightest. "I was told his mother was present?"

"She  _was._  I think she got bored."

"Then visiting hours are at three this afternoon. You'll want to come back then, he should be in the trauma ward, but you will need his full name; nicknames and pseudonyms won't bring up anything in our records, I'm afraid. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have quite a few other –"

" _Confundus!"_ Neville's wand was out from behind his back and gone again before anyone could have even seen the movement, and Turley stopped mid-step as he had been turning to leave, rotating back to face the young wizard with a look of bafflement.

"Yes…um…is there…?" He trailed off, and Neville smiled.

"Just confirming, sir, you were going to give Mr. Mulligan's friends and myself permission to see him off-hours?" he gestured to the tablet in Turley's hands, and he looked down at it as though he had never seen such an object.

"Was I?"

"You were going to write us a note?" He gave his best innocent look, holding out his hand expectantly, and Turley let out a long sigh, running his fingers through his thinning hair before snatching a pen from his breast pocket and scrawling out a few hasty lines of unreadable script and tearing off the top page of the tablet.

"Right. Here you are. No more than three at a time of course, but…who are you again?" He frowned, and Neville waved a hand dismissively, already backing towards the doors that led out to the main hallway of Accident and Emergency.

"No one important, but thanks again, sir!" Turley frowned more deeply, opening his mouth to say something, but Neville was already gone, the precious permission clutched tightly in his fist as he burst out into the breaking dawn. "Kevin! Mark! Tommy!"

At once, he was surrounded by a solid wall of shouts and demands, what seemed at once two or five or twenty people grabbing his arms, his hands, his shoulders, spinning him from one unshaven, shadow-eyed face to the next in pleas and oaths that begged for information too overwhelmingly to answer. He was shaking his head, raising his hands to try and ward them off enough to give them the news they wanted so badly, but a voice cut harshly over the babble, dispelling them instantly. "LAY OFF!"

Neville turned to see Ulster leaning against the wall, arms crossed tightly over his chest, a cigarette with an impossibly long head of ash hanging from his mouth as he nodded his head crisply. "Ya've news then, Jackie, pray ya do?"

"He's still alive, he –"

Ulster had to quell another outpouring before Neville could continue, and though he left out the use of magic, he had a feeling it was suspected based on the keen narrowing of the leader's eyes when he showed the note and explained that Turley had 'just changed his mind.'

For a moment, he was worried that Ulster would start expecting him to be capable of mind control, but he pushed that aside as one of the many, many things it was useless to worry about and that he would just have to face if they arose. Much more relevant at the moment was that he had been selected as one of the first three who would be visiting the ward, and he accepted it gratefully as the honor it was above those who had known Sean for years, taking with him a dozen prayers and good wishes, a lucky penny, an old rabbit's foot long worn hairless, and morbidly, the shining casings of the bullets Kevin had picked up from the street outside the club.

The combination of the note and Ulster's own intimidating authority got them in easily enough, but as soon as they reached Sean's bedside, Neville wished he had stayed below. He couldn't force himself to take a single step closer, his hands clenched to fists at his sides and his whole body shaking as he fought the growing urge to be violently sick. He knew what Muggle surgery was, he knew it meant cutting a person, but never, never had he comprehended how truly vicious, invasive, medieval it all was, what an absolute  _violation_.

Sean was stripped completely naked beneath the paper-thin sheet, the crimson tattoo and the red of his hair glaring on skin so pale that even the freckles had faded like ash. Straps banded his ankles, wrists, thighs, upper arms, mocking the idea that he might try to struggle, but he was so clearly helpless that they seemed more insult than precaution.

Tubes ran everywhere like the tentacles of grasping, feeding creatures, stabbing into his arms and the backs of his hands, protruding from the stained bandages wrapping his stomach, down his throat, even between his legs. Where they penetrated him, there were little smears of blood that no one had bothered to wipe away, and a machine was hissing like a snake as it sucked the very air from his lungs and blew it back again, not even allowing him the simple act of breathing on his own.

Turley's words swam through his head like curses, telling of what lay beneath even the visible nightmare. Parts of his intestines torn out, part of his liver, metal plates screwed to his bones, they might even cut out a kidney later, as if this weren't enough. And here he'd thought Sean had only been given two wounds, not sentenced to the torture of dozens more in the name of healing, not to mention so many smaller, in their own way harsher slashes against the proud youth's dignity and fire.

He didn't know how long Ulster's hand had been on his shoulder before he really felt it, turning his head with a wordless shake of horror as he motioned towards what had been done. "They…." Neville choked off, his mouth moving against concepts he could not form and didn't truly want to, but Ulster nodded with a deep knowing in his eyes.

"There's a bloke," he said softly, even gently, keeping his voice low enough that his words were between the two of them alone despite Tommy kneeling at Sean's bedside only a few feet away. "Out just beyond the Crumlin Road on Ardoyne Place. He's got a car that's more than a touch familiar from what Kevin recalls havin' seen, and he's RIRA sure's he's born. Name's Malachey Cannaid. I don't suppose you'd be willin' to give us a hand in tryin' to find out whether he's the one what put young Sean there in that feckin' bed?"

Neville drew a deep breath, his eyes never leaving the ravaged figure. "If you don't know for sure…."

Ulster nodded towards the boot where the handle of Neville's wand only barely bulged the fabric of the tight club trousers he still wore. "Maybe ya don't know it, Jackie, but a man what wouldn't be fazed havin' both his kneecaps blown from here to the Boyne'd piss his britches to have that thing tickle his toes if ya were willin' to do a bit o' sparkly to give the gist o' it. Whether or not ya can pull rabbits out o' hats, ya can sure's shite turn a man into a canary for us. If you're willin', that is. I could understand fair enough if this's given ya second thoughts."

The words beneath the crimson fist on Sean's chest seemed less a boastful declaration now than a last request, and Neville shook his head. "No second thoughts. How far away is Ardoyne Place?"

"About ten minutes, lad," a pitch-black smile spread across Ulster's narrow lips. "But if we let Mark drive, I'll have ya there in four."

OOO

"Oh, bless ya, ya's good as signed your name." The sun had barely broken the horizon, the quiet streets of the little neighborhood still empty, newspapers still lying dew-sparkled and uncollected on the drives as Ulster knelt by the side of the dark blue sedan in front of number 12, skimming his fingers along the rear bumper. There was a crease through the paint there, a thin silver streak that was angled all wrong and too devoid of surrounding damage to be a simple minor collision. It did, however, match rather nicely with Kevin's repeated insistence all night that he had fired back at their attackers.

"I were goin' for the tires, I was," Kevin nodded eagerly. "Just got off the one before it feckin' jammed on me. Piece o' gyp. 'Sposed to be a real Glock too, paid a feckin' – "

"Don't care what ya paid," Ulster said evenly, riding calmly over the other man's rambling, "I've told ya time'n again ya might's well throw it down jakes if ya don't keep it clean, 'specially if you're gonna be usin' it t' plump the pickle in your trous." He stood, brushing his hands on the thighs of his jeans as he jerked his head towards the house. "But don't we have a social call, boys? Or are we waitin' for the Holy Virgin to come by and fiddle our langs before we move?"

"I'm ready." Neville underlined his words by reaching down to pull the wand from his boot, twirling it between his fingers with the vindictive sliver of a smile. "You really think this'll make him talk, Ulster?"

"Between havin' a confession signed to his car's arse and you playin' Chopstickies with him, oh, Jackie, he'll be a feckin' canary, sure's I said." Ulster rubbed his hands together as they walked up the short brick path to the front door, then he turned back to face Kevin and Mark. "You lads stay out here, will ya? Make sure the neighbors don't forget that nosiness is a sin, and that we don't believe in confessin' your way out o' those."

The two men nodded, taking up positions on either side of the little porch like sentries, and Neville frowned. "Won't that…uh, kind of do the opposite? I mean, won't it kind of draw attention that we're here?"

"Jackie," Ulster reached out and squeezed his shoulder with the look of a father explaining something to his precocious but still very young child. "In Ardoyne, they've long learned that the best way to keep the nose they believe the Pope put on their damn fool faces is to keep it out o' the business o' folk what ain't been so wise. Consider't a service from the Crown t'we let them know where they ought not hear nothin' this fine mornin', seen's the coppers only just began comin' this way 'tall, and they still won't come f'ts to do with Troubles."

"All right," Neville licked his lips uncertainly, but he knew he didn't have much choice but to accept Ulster's word that this was indeed how things went, and besides, he didn't have nearly the same need to worry about being caught by police as they did. It would just be very awkward more than anything else. Taking a deep breath, he turned to the door, pointing his wand at the knob just as Ulster was coiling back to lash out a kick against it. " _Alohomora."_

With a tiny, agreeable click, the knob turned, and the door swung easily open, earning a look of surprised delight from the paramilitary leader. "Ah, Jackie," he sighed with an almost sensual appreciation, "such a useful little trinket that is, truly. Don't know why ya ain't more flush than Croesus, but neverthemind."

As they entered the darkened interior of the home, Neville was surprised to find that his initial worries upon arriving in the picturesque neighborhood were fully unfounded. He had wondered if he could possibly be angry with someone who lived such a sweetly normal-seeming existence, but as he looked around their quarry's house, it was exactly that which infuriated him all the more.

This was not the bachelor flat of some angry young working-class thug. This was a  _home_. This man was in his mid or late thirties by the pictures on the wall. He had a wife. A son. A daughter. Children's sketches on the kitchen door. A large framed painting of a gentle-faced man cradling a newborn lamb in his arms over the couch with the words _The Lord is my Shepherd_  on the little brass plate. A note taped to the handle of an umbrella in the hall in a woman's handwriting:  _Forget your lunch again and I'll stop making them. All love._

His left hand clenched into a tight fist, and he could almost feel the wedding ring he had been forced to leave behind at the Macmillans' farm, see the look in Hannah's eyes as she watched her friends caress round bellies and squirming babies. It wasn't fair. You had to choose, those were the rules. If you wanted the little house and the kids and the wife who made your lunches, you had to earn them, and if there were darker things to be done, you had to finish them first. If his war wasn't over, if he still felt the need to go out at one in the morning on vengeful missions to gun down laughing young men, he wasn't allowed to have someone who made him an ugly clay key fob that read  _WuRls bEst Da._

Ulster moved as confidently as though the house were his own, leading Neville down the slightly cramped hallway to the door at the end, where he paused, testing the knob carefully. It turned easily, not locked at all, and he grinned. "Easy peasy, puddin' and pie."

Then his shoulders tensed, and Neville only barely had a moment where his eye caught the pink kitten name plaque that read  _Eileen_ on the door across the hall, and he cast a Muffliato Charm almost the exact moment that Ulster threw open the door of the master bedroom with a loud crash and a roar of fury. Just because he'd broken the rules didn't mean the children should have to hear. It wasn't as if he'd lost sight that there were innocents involved, whether or not they were the kids of Finian RIRA bastards.

He hit the wife with a Body-Bind before she could scream or run, dropping her immobile and out of the way to the bed as Ulster grabbed the husband by the neck with one hand and the groin with the other, yanking him from beneath the sheets and marching him a few steps away before throwing him to the ground. The man wasn't given the faintest chance to recover, stark naked and still sputtering with sleep as Ulster jammed the heel of his workboot into the back of his neck, grinding his face into the carpet. "Hello, Malachey, me darlin'. Sleepin' in, are we? Understandable. Ya were out late, weren't ya?"

The man started to struggle, his arms bracing into a push-up position to try and shove Ulster away, but he pressed down tighter with his foot, his voice still casual and friendly. "Don't make me snap your neck, Malachey. If ya do, ya won't be able to meet me friend, and ya do want to make a good impression with him, I promise. Ya won't meet his like too often, see. Lad's a Chopstick, don'tcha know, and I don't mean no wax-on-wax-feckin'-off slant, neither. Jackie, love, be a dear and explain yourself, will ya?"

Neville walked around slowly, deliberately staying to the shadows, knowing that one of the most tried and true interrogation techniques was not allowing your victim to see you clearly. He did, however, let the hand with the wand fall into the shaft of pale morning light that was just coming through the bedroom window, making the polished wood and golden band shine. "It's like he said," he agreed calmly, "I've got some rather unusual talents, and I happen to be friends with the young man you shot last night: Mr. Mulligan."

"Didn't shoot nobody!" The words were muffled against the carpet but still very clear, the defiance in them beyond question, and Ulster shook his head sadly, clucking his tongue.

"Ah, but either that's a damned lie or you're knowin' who did, 'tis. We've seen where our chum kissed your car farewell with his little popgun, we have. We know ya were in't some ways, so why don'tcha just make it miles your ease and tell us exactly how, 'swell's who else were with ya on't?"

"You're feckin' mental, y'are! Let me go! I swear I –"

In a movement so fast that he scarcely seemed to have shifted at all, Ulster's foot came off the man's neck and kicked him harshly in the face, returning to the previous position before blood had even begun to seep from the gash newly opened by his eyebrow. The violence was a stark contrast to the utterly reasonable tone he'd been using, but when Neville looked at the leader in surprise, he saw an unspoken direction there that he instantly recognized, and he nodded.

"I'm sorry, sir." He knelt, allowing his face to come into the light now, and his smile was soft as he reached out and used his wand to clean the blood from the other man's face, then healed the small cut with a glimmer from the tip and a quickly murmured spell. "Forgive my friend. He gets very upset sometimes. I need to keep a lot more control of myself, you see. Like I just showed you, I've got a great deal of power here…" he ran the wand between his fingers, "but it can do a lot more than heal your face."

Without allowing the smile to change, he gave a tiny flick, and a yellow burst shot from the wand to scorch a small crater into the floor less than an inch from the prisoner's face. "Do you understand?"

"Saints preserve, it's  _you!"_ The man had begun to shake so violently that his skull rattled against the hard side of Ulster's boot, his eyes huge, and a musky, acrid smell hit the air as a dark spot appeared on the carpet beneath his hips.

Ulster noticed it, turning with a bark of mocking laughter. "Jesus, Jackie, should give ya a medal! Ya  _actually_ made the feckin' fairy piss himself!"

"I don't care if he pisses himself." Neville's voice was low, intimate, little more than a whisper as he crouched deeper and ran the tip of his wand along his victim's cheek. "I want to know what he was doing last night."

But the man was too frightened to answer. His eyes were shut tight, and his lips were moving almost too rapidly to follow, the words tumbling over each other in a desperate, frenzied rush.

" _Avemariagratiaplenadominustecubenedituinmulieriebenefructu…"_

Neville didn't understand the whole thing, but it still made sense enough through the Latin he had learned in school for spellwork, and he shook his head, tapping the man on the nose with his wand to cut off the tirade and get his attention wholly again. "Maria's not here, friend. I'm here, and I want –"

"You're  _him,_  aincha?" His voice was so high and tight it sounded almost like a woman's, and Ulster snorted in disgust, delivering another swift kick to the back of the man's skull before returning his foot to its previous position.

"He ain't the devil, if that's whatcha mean, ya superstitious Taig cunt –"

"Not the devil." Neville shook his head, his eyes narrowing as he read the deeper meaning to the fear. "The Sluagh…no…" he hesitated, assessing the reaction, then nodded in certainty. "The  _Diabhal Dubh_."

The guess was rewarded with a low moan, and Neville flourished the wand again as he settled himself more easily onto the carpet. He had never been all that fond of interrogation, but he was actually feeling more relaxed than he had in days, almost as if his body itself were responding more easily to his desires, as if the magic flowed more readily through his blood and into his fingers. He stretched, savoring the feeling of his shoulders popping loosely, his neck cracking some of the night's stress away before he settled forward again into the shaft of light, pushing back the hair that had fallen forward low over his eyes and around his face. "Well, maybe I am or maybe I'm not, but I'm certainly –"

He was cut off by the prisoner's scream. Neville had expected fear, wanted fear, very much intended to produce fear, but this actually set him aback, and he stopped, shocked by the abject terror contorting every feature. It honestly looked like the man was losing his mind. Only once had he seen fear even close to it, years before when Corner was about to be tortured, but this wasn't just the anticipation of pain, no matter how extreme. This was the order of a man's universe being destroyed in front of him, and it was a sound that was so gut-wrenchingly wrong that Neville recoiled.

The screams were piercing, hysterical, and it was a miracle that Ulster's whisper carried through them, but it did, perhaps because the tone was so wrong. He had stepped back off the prisoner's neck, though the terrified man made no move to get up, rather pressing himself deeper into the urine-soaked carpet with his hands laced over his head, curling into a tight, fetal ball as he continued to scream. Ulster had shoved his back to the farthest wall, and he was staring at Neville open-mouthed, his eyes bulging. "Ya…ya…" he swallowed hard, clearly summoning all his courage to force the words. "You're a feckin'… _Jesus…"_

"Ulster, the  _hell_ is going on with you?" Neville stood, starting towards him, utterly baffled by the sudden reaction in someone who knew perfectly well he was a wizard, perfectly well he had magic, but who was reacting like –

Neville stopped, feeling his own face fall suddenly pale, the air sucked from the room as he caught sight of the mirror on the dressing table and knew exactly what had prompted the shock from the two other men. His own face.

The diagonal scars on both cheeks. The dark hair with the dust of gray at the temples, never cut short again after it had grown to his shoulders over the last year at Hogwarts. The stubble that appeared so thickly if he didn't shave every single day.

His own face.

Ulster recovered first. His hand flew behind his back to the waistband of his trousers in a movement almost too quick to see, and before Neville fully realized what had happened, he was staring down the dark eye of a pistol leveled directly and unwaveringly at his face. Ulster's voice was ice, no trace of fear lingering in the steely threat. "I reckon I can pull this trigger 'fore ya lift that Chopstick, Jackie, darlin', so you're goin' to listen to me."

Careful not to so much as twitch the wand in his hand, not to make any movement that might be construed as a possible attack, Neville nodded slowly. "All right."

"You're goin' to drop that," Ulster continued, "you're goin' to kick it under the bed, and then you're goin' to start talkin fast, you're goin' to tell me who the feck ya are, and you're gonna be whistlin' a feckin' mile, 'cause you're gonna have to fair do a miracle to convince me why I shouldn't blow your shapeshiftin' brains clear back 'cross the water."

He did as he was told, letting the wand fall loosely from his fingers and kicking it behind him under the bed, then kneeling on the floor, his hands laced atop his head in the same posture they demanded be assumed by captured prisoners. There was no pretending he was anything but Ulster's prisoner, because even if he had been foolish enough to attempt to keep his wand, the other man was entirely right; he could pull the trigger long before Neville could cast any spell, and betting on poor aim at less than ten feet's distance was beyond a fool's wager. Besides, there were still options, one thing he knew was that there were always options as long as you survived.

"This is what I really look like," he explained calmly, meeting the hard eyes with even sincerity. "I've been using magic before, taking on the likeness of an old friend of mine. It's something I have to do every hour, though, and I guess I lost track of time."

"I guess ya did," Ulster said sarcastically. "But forgive me if I ain't keen to be trustin' someone who's been hidin' their true face from me. I'm half keen to take it personal, like."

"It's not personal. I told you before that those of us with magic keep to ourselves, but it's more than that…we have our own world, really, hidden alongside yours, and it's very important to us to keep it separate for all our sakes. A long time ago, it wasn't that way, and things were really ugly. We don't want to see that happen again."

"For someone tryin' to keep himself to himself, you're in our business pretty solid."

He took a deep breath, knowing the next confession couldn't be avoided, but afraid that it would mean a summary execution. "It couldn't be helped. I'm an Auror…it's a kind of police officer in our world, and –"

Sure enough, Ulster's hand tightened on the gun, his face flushing dramatically, and Neville couldn't help but wince, ready for the blast, for the pain, knowing his only hope would be that it wasn't anything that would kill instantly and that he might have the faintest chance to Apparate to Ron and Hermione for help before he bled to death. Instead the blue eyes narrowed to slits, the words a hiss of rage. "Feckin'  _copper,_ ya are, and we –"

"It's not about you!" He interrupted desperately. " _Please!_ I don't  _care_ what you do! I don't care if you kill every last Catholic in Ireland, it's not my fight! I'm just trying to catch the Sluagh!"

The hand did not relax so much as a fraction, but nor did it tighten that last deadly bit. "What's that to do with you lyin' to us?"

"The Sluagh – he's a wizard like me, but he's going to destroy the balance we have, because he's killing normal people, he's out of control, a vigilante. We had an outright war in our world about five years ago…that's where the scars came from, they're on my back too, as you can see. I was flogged for fighting back, for being in a resistance movement; I was kind of paramilitary myself, really. And we won, and I'm part of the force trying to round up the last of the bad wizards, but it's all over. Except the Sluagh doesn't see it that way. He's lost his mind, he's paranoid, he's imagining that there's this Diabhal Dubh who's going to start the war up again, and I've been sent to stop him…."

Neville hesitated, then allowed the painful truth to show unvarnished on his face. "Because his name is Seamus Finnigan, and he was my friend, my Lieutenant in the resistance, my roommate at school for seven years before he went mental. They think I can stop him because I know him better than anyone else who survived our war."

"Bring a tear to me eye, it does," Ulster said flatly. "But I still ain't hearin' where that takes ya to our door."

"Because he's been hunting people like you," Neville admitted bluntly. "He's been hunting dark wizards on our side and people from the paramilitias on yours. He has too many people helping him and he's too good himself to try to just track him down, so we've tried to come at it from behind, identify potential victims –"

"You're tellin' me that me lads're your feckin'  _bait_?!"

He shook his head quickly. "No! Well – we weren't going to let him get you, at least. I was supposed to find someone that fit his profile and deliberately leak him information that would entice him to strike, then put myself in the victim's place to make the arrest when he went for the trap. The Poly – the magic that I used to conceal myself wasn't to hide from you, it was so that he wouldn't suspect anything if he was given a description of the new recruit in the RHD."

Ulster walked forward slowly, stepping over the cringing man still curled on the carpet and pressing the barrel of the pistol cold and hard against Neville's hammering chest. "And why should I trust ya now? What's sayin' this ain't just more o' your shite? Why shouldn't I twitch me finger and just take me chances 'bout the rest 'o it?"

"Because I saved Sean's life, and I could have just let him die," he answered instantly. "There was nothing to make me stop the bleeding, this  _isn't_  my fight, but I saved him, and I've done nothing but serve you well no matter what face I've done it under." A pleading edge had come into his voice now, and he looked up beseechingly into the stony gaze. "And because I'm a bad liar, I always have been – that's why I never  _said_ it was the IRA who'd whipped me, I just let you think it – and that woman in the picture is my wife that I've had to leave behind for this when we've only just been married five weeks, and I'm not going to lose her by trying to play stupid games at the end of a gun."

The silence, the absolute motionless silence was the longest of Neville's life, then slowly, far too slowly, Ulster withdrew the gun, stepping back again, but leaving it pointed at the wizard's head. "There's truth'n your eyes, there is, and I've always had a gift for seein' when a man's played his last spade up. And it's bald enough ya stopped Sean bleedin' himself t'the devil's doorstep last night."

He nodded carefully. "And Finnigan's your enemy too. You knew yourself that he's already killed two of you, it's part of why you let me join. I was honest with you about that from the beginning, this isn't the first time you've learned who I'm chasing."

"'Struth," Ulster allowed.

"I'll swear on whatever you want me to that I have no position whatsoever in the normal police force, and quite bluntly, although I was considering turning you over to them after I had Finnigan, I've changed my mind since then, and I'll swear to that too."

The dark brows lifted in surprise. "You've true changed to our cause then, ya have?"

"No, but I've learned that this is all way too much of a mess, and that I have no right to make any judgments. I think all this is wrong, I'll admit it. Fireworks shouldn't mean getting shot down in cold blood, and schoolgirls should be able to sleep safely in their own beds. But I have no place to say who's on the 'better' side, and it wouldn't be right to turn in any of you unless I could turn in someone equal on the other side, and after seeing just how deep all of this goes, I don't think it would even matter if I stopped a hundred on  _both_ sides."

Ulster considered this for a moment, then he smiled, and there was something mournful in it. "Ah, you're an innocent lamb, ain'tcha, Jackie? Such fine ideas those are. Fine and noble's a diamond-covered turd."

"I mean it!" Neville protested vehemently. "I'm not going to turn in anyone except Finnigan! He's the only one I want in this whole disaster!"

"Oh, I believe ya on that," Ulster chuckled, and the smile widened to the leer of a predator. "But you're wrong that ya ain't takin' sides. You've taken your side ya have, and listen close, for I'm tellin' ya the birds and the bees, Jackie, darlin'." He extended the gun at arms length towards Neville's forehead. "I'll let ya have your Chopstick back, ya can put on whatever bleedin' face ya want. Ya can hunt any feckin' shadows ya want, but from now 'til the day ya have the Sluagh in cuffs and can prove that t'me, you're mine. You're mine, and your Chopstick's mine, and if ya try anythin' funny with it, oh, but you'd best hope that world and that wife're hidden very, very, very well, and that ya never step a foot out've it as long's ya live. Do ya follow, Jackie? And please say yes, or I'll be havin' to kill ya and waste this whole lovely chat."

What else was there? It was a devil's bargain, he didn't want to think what Ulster would want him to do now, but he wasn't willing to just hope that the wizarding world would be refuge enough if he betrayed the unflinching murder in those eyes. They  _had_  lived through too much that could never happen. His head dropped, his eyes closing as he nodded.

" _Say_ it." Ulster's voice was a harsh bark. " _Swear_ it, and I'd best believe ya. Swear you're mine on your woman's life."

Almost painfully, his eyes opened, his head seeming to weigh more than he could ever budge as he lifted it to take Ulster's gaze with his own, his voice a broken-glass rasp in his throat. Though there were spells like the Fidelius Charm and the Unbreakable Vow which could underline it, a wizard's oath was magic in itself, and he knew that if he did this, it would at the very least place Hannah at grave risk should he break it. Hate for the young man he had once called one of his dearest friends burned like acid in his chest, but he nodded through it. "I swear on my wife's life, Ulster. I'm yours until Finnigan's mine."

"Grand!" The cold smile broke into a grin like summer sunshine, and he dropped the pistol to his side again, gesturing expansively towards the bed. "Now fetch your Chopstick, and what say we get some beak? Too early for a pint, true 'tis, but I could take a coffee black n' strong's your mother's hole, I could."

Warily, Neville got to his feet, his eyes still on the weapon in Ulster's hand as he pointed uncertainly towards the man they had come for. "What about him? He never told us anything."

"You're right!" He looked startled, as if seeing the naked, huddled man for the first time, then shrugged. "And so feckin' fool o' him not to, it were."

The gesture was so casual that it seemed as if he were just indicating their prisoner as he spoke, but a shot tore apart the morning air. There was only a single tidy hole in the center of Malachey's forehead, but the back of his head seemed to dissolve in a gush of pink brains and shattered skull that splattered the floor, dresser, and wall with blood and hair and fragments of tissue.

Neville heard himself cry out in startled horror, but before the echo of the blast had even faded, Ulster had calmly tucked the gun back into his waistband, kneeling himself to fetch the wand from under the bed and toss it lightly across the room. "Thought he'd sing like a choir o' angels, but ah, well, Jackie, 'spose some ya lose. Ya like donuts, or ya fancy a full fry-up? Starved, meself."


	6. Victoria Terminal

Neville stood in the brick courtyard, his head tipped back, his arms out at his sides, palms open and upturned as the rain spattered on his closed eyelids, ran down his face in rivulets, clung the fabric of his shirt against his chest like a bandage on wounds that could not bleed. It was cold rain, so cold it stung, but he wasn't shivering. He just stood there, letting it soak him, smelling the faintly ashy tinge of the city where even rain wasn't clean, tasting it as it trickled between his loosely parted lips.

"I'd ask if you're all right, mate, but something's telling me the answer's 'not hardly.'"

Ron's voice came from only a few feet behind him, but Neville did not move, his eyes still closed to the rain falling on the assumed body of his long-dead friend. "I'm fine."

"Like hell you are. Listen, I'm not just here with the next batch of Polyjuice…Hermione's starting to go spare about you, and I'm not far behind her. Last ten days, I'd swear you've knocked off as many pounds, and it doesn't look like you've slept a night through." He felt the other wizard's hand on his shoulder now, and the rain stopped falling on his left side, the steady rhythm of it interrupted in a tight pattering sound as it struck the umbrella. "Not to mention standing here trying to drown yourself when there's a dozen perfectly good shelters you could have waited under."

Neville licked his lips, stepping away from Ron's touch to let the rain fall on him completely again. "It feels good."

"It's effing freezing and smells like crap," came the firm response. "And I think Hermione was absolutely right, even though I tried to tell her she was overreacting. You need to be extricated."

Now his eyes did fly open, and he whirled to face Ron, shoving the rain out of his face harshly with the back of his hand. "You can't do that!"

"You're in a bed in St. Mungo's all crispy, remember? This is  _our_ case, and we certainly can." The freckled chin was thrust forward in determination, but his eyes were soft with sympathy and concern. "We're not idiots, and even though you haven't been saying anything, we're also more than a little connected with the Muggle police right now. It doesn't take N.E.W.T.s to know that there's a connection between the RHD suddenly having a wizard and the upswing in 'sectarian problems' the last week or so. They just think it's one of the periodic little spikes, thank Merlin, but I don't bloody think so. They're  _using_ you, aren't they? And I don't mean just to break windows with a little  _Diffendo_ now and then. I've seen pictures. That bloke in Derry was Cruciated."

He looked away, unable to meet the piercing blue gaze, and for the first time, he suddenly felt the chill of the rain all the way to his bones. "That doesn't mean it was me."

"Then why didn't you look shocked or ask me when Seamus started changing how he operated?" Ron fired back. "I'm not trying to go after you, Neville. I know why you're doing it, I know what's at stake here –"

"No you don't!" Neville's face flushed hot despite the shivering that had seized the rest of him, and he rounded fiercely, fighting the surge of frustration, the urge to punch his friend that he knew was utterly unfounded and unfair.

Despite his greater strength, Ernie was a few inches shorter than Ron, and there was no reason to feel so outraged that he had to look up slightly into the eyes of a man he normally faced nose-to-nose. But everything seemed to make him angry these days. Everything except what really should have. That just made him feel sick, trapped, helpless. "You don't understand any of this, Weasley! You and Hermione are conducting your perfectly by-the-book investigation, following leads, tracking sources, making reports while I'm buried fucking alive in the ugly, stinking, rotting guts of this city! You understand  _nothing!_ "

"I understand that we've got to get you out of there before it hurts you in ways that can't be fixed," Ron pressed. "We do what we can from the Auror Department, but otherwise, we let this be Belfast's problem unless  _Seamus_  takes it far enough where he has to come out of the shadows enough for us to do something real. Not wanting to be a bastard about it, but I care a lot more about my friend than a country full of strangers that really aren't too thrilled to have us nosing around their business anyway. They can all hex themselves for all it matters to me before I'd let them get you."

The heartfelt truth of his words broke the anger, but Neville just shook his head, sagging to sit uncaring on the wet bricks, his shoulders slumped forwards as he braced his elbows on his knees and ran his fingers through the sodden curls. "That means a lot to me, really, Ron. But I can't leave, and it's not a stupid pride thing, either. I'd be just as happy as you are at this point to just tell them all where they can shove their wands and go home."

"Then why don't you?" Folding his umbrella and tucking it under one long arm, Ron crouched beside him, not seeming to notice as the Knut-sized drops quickly plastered his hair to his scalp and drenched his clothes. "We can make the arrangements right away, have you out of there in less than twenty-four hours, and they don't even have to know you pulled. I've got things set up already with the Auror offices and the PSNI, we're ready to make it look like you were just arrested and hauled back to England as a criminal."

"Won't work."

"C'mon, Neville," Ron smiled encouragingly, "have a little more faith in me than that, I've got it –"

"Ron, they know I'm an Auror. Getting me arrested won't work. Besides, like I said, I  _can't_."

The revelation came as a clear shock, but his friend recovered quickly, taking a deep breath. "Not gonna ask why they know that. Don't think I want to know. But why can't you get out, even if we've got to find another way to do it? Hermione's in with a suspect right now, it's why I came alone, but you know that witch, whatever your problem is, I'm sure there's a solution somewhere in some book that you and I've never even heard of."

"I belong to Ulster until I've caught Seamus. It was…well, that doesn't matter any more, but he made me take an oath on Hannah's life that bound me to him. If I try to walk now…."

Ron let out a low whistle, his eyes wide with horrified understanding. "She loses any protection magic can give her, which means she's as wide open to retaliation as any Muggle woman, maybe more, 'cause she's not used to looking out for herself without it."

Neville nodded, unable but not needing to say more.

There was a pause as Ron considered the newly exposed complications of their situations, then he got to his feet, pacing back and forth as he gestured to himself in the way he always had when he was thinking intently. The habit was so familiar that Neville had to look away, it was too painfully nostalgic to the years they had known each other as boys, to the uncountable nights he had watched Ron do the exact same thing across Gryffindor Tower when Hermione had actually made him do his own homework.

Nothing was wrong with the memories themselves, they were even quite pleasant, but they also came with Harry sprawled on his bed, itching absently at his scar and pushing his glasses up on his nose every few lines as he worked at his own homework, Dean with his sketchpad, trying for the thousandth time to catch the sense of motion of the Whomping Willow in Muggle charcoal, and Seamus.  _Seamus,_ rosy-cheeked and bright-eyed, leaning over one shoulder and blowing ever so faintly in his best friend's ear until the other boy whirled and threw the charcoal at him, sending him to the floor in a ball of riotous laughter with a black smudge across his freckled nose.

His head sank forward into his hands, fisting his fingers in his hair so hard that it hurt, that it felt like great clumps would tear away in his grasp at any moment. Where had it all gone so wrong? Had there been a moment, something in the D.A. that should have alerted him, something he should have seen, something he could have done differently?

It didn't matter. None of it mattered. The past couldn't be changed, or he wouldn't bother going back to sort out where things had gone wrong for his friend. He would just go back a lot further than that and find a Muggle orphanage where there was a helpless newborn baby named Tom Riddle who profoundly needed a pillow placed over his face and held there very tightly for a very long time. A bitter smile crossed his face as he thought of the night he had followed Harry to the Department of Mysteries. Too bad that you would need a Time Turner to undo the accidental smashing of the Time Turners. Really almost funny in a sick kind of irony.

His contemplation was broken as Ron came to an abrupt, splashing halt, whirling to face Neville with a look on his face that was pure determination. "Okay, you're gonna have to stay in for now."

A dry little chuckle passed over Neville's mouth. "Knew that already, but glad to hear you approve."

"No, listen!" Ron grabbed his arm, hauling him to his feet to join the pacing. "Just one more day, maybe two. I'm –"

"NO!" Neville shook off the hold, crossing his arms hard over his chest. "I'm not –"

"I  _SAID_ , will you bloody  _listen?!_ Hermione's saying we still need to nurse this a little more, but I'm going to marry the girl, I've been in love with her since I was somewhere in third or fourth year, I know better than anybody when she actually needs to keep working on something and when she's just going over and over the same stuff because she gets obsessive and scared when things really matter. We're crossing towards obsessive and scared. If you can give us a name, a place, and a time – or hell, just a place and a time – we can be ready to move in forty-eight hours max. We spring our trap, we nail Seamus' wand to the wall, and you're back in Hannah's arms before the weekend."

"And if it doesn't work?" Neville said warily.

"Then either we're all carved up like a Christmas goose and don't have to worry about it, or we're right back here trying to come up with another idea to get you out of there." The long-fingered hands spread with a shrug. "Best I can do, considering."

"Yeah, considering." He made a noise of distaste at his own stupidity. "I never thought I could want anyone at the end of my wand this badly since your mother got Bellatrix, and I never,  _never_ imagined it could be Seamus."

"War does funny things to people," Ron said, but the weak smile behind the words proved that he knew how hollow they rang. "Still, it's not your fault. Some people can cope, some can't, some are kinda both. It messed us all up, really. We're all survivors. Hermione never goes anywhere without a little bag in her pocket that's packed with enough supplies to house an army for six months…even showers with it right by the edge of the tub where she could grab it, not that you  _ever_ heard it from me. I don't think I've had a night yet where I've not had at least one good gasping nightmare, and I've only been able to bring myself to go back to Hogwarts the once when they unveiled the memorial."

"Hannah's like Hermione and her bag, but about the Galleon," Neville admitted.

"And you?" The question was a little too casual, but he sighed, knowing it wasn't fair to hide his own ridiculous secret, but feeling embarrassed nonetheless.

"It's stupid."

"More stupid than needing to hear 'it's okay, Ron, baby, it's over' at least once a night? Than showering with a pup tent and a portable grocers eighteen inches away?"

"I won't cut my hair any shorter than it wound up or do anything to get rid of the gray. And I don't know why, Hannah was after me forever even if she has finally given up. It's just like…like…." He fumbled, trailing off, but Ron didn't laugh.

"It's like not being able to take time for a haircut and winding up with gray at seventeen are just as much scars and badges as the ones on your face or your back, even if she doesn't get that, and you're not going to erase those because you can't erase the others?"

"Exactly! How did you –?"

"Like I said, we're all survivors." There was nothing happy in his smile as he squeezed Neville tightly on the shoulder. "But there's a world of difference between weird little rituals and nightmares and talismans and  _actually_ not understanding it's over."

"It's funny," Neville said quietly, "sometimes I hate him so much…and sometimes, I still want to kill him, but I feel like I should do it as a friend. As a mercy. If he's never actually gotten out of that night, he's still in hell, and there's nothing that the Ministry or anyone else could do to him that would be more punishment than that."

"Mercy, punishment, whatever it is, I just don't want you sucked down with him." The blue eyes seemed to have taken on the exact color of the steely thunderheads above as they bored into him. "Do you think you can get someone good to a certain place at a certain time for us? Really. Not what you think I want to hear."

He nodded, standing straight now, a real, if poisoned smile spreading slowly to set off the deep dimples in Ernie's cheeks. "Tell Hermione that the man who calls himself Billy Ulster will be at Victoria Terminal Three, Clydeport lading dock eighteen at the Port at midnight tomorrow night."

Ron's eyes widened. "You really think you can --?"

"Believe me, Ron, it'll be my pleasure."

OOO

The lading dock always made him feel miniaturized. Huge cargo containers came off the ships in a constant stream of giant's building blocks, arranged into rows and structures according to destination and contents by a system so elaborate that it was trusted to no human mind, rather collated and controlled by numbers and barcodes typed and scanned into the handheld machines of the dock supervisors who orchestrated the whole thing like a vastly scaled puzzle. Many of them would never even be opened, rather simply passed on to other ships heading other places, or else fitted whole onto the growling skeletons of lorries, but it had been Neville's job for over a week now to help with the ones which  _were_ opened, spitting cases and crates onto pallets that would be trundled away by forklifts to who knew where.

It was a never-ending parade of things coming and things going, every possible fruit of modern society from air fresheners to zippers, the factories of China sending the latest kitchen gadget to the housewives of Donegal, the quarries of Connemara sending prettily carved green marble coasters to protect the coffee tables of Boston. The ships came and the lorries went at all hours, and even at midnight, the harsh glare of the worklights substituted for the absent sun, and Neville walked easily unnoticed among the bustle, just another strong-shouldered man in a blue jumpsuit and yellow helmet, a plastic identification tag dangling from his breast pocket.

Ulster followed easily at his side, his gait bearing the cocky air of a man who feels effortlessly in control of any situation, his own jumpsuit zipped over the invisible bulges of holsters beneath his arm and at his ankle. It made the resentment writhe in Neville's chest that the Irishman hadn't even bothered to leave himself easy access to the weapons. He didn't need to…his weapon was the oak and dragon heartstring in his pet wizard's pocket, and the light whistle that skimmed through his lips knew that.

When they reached lading dock eighteen, Ulster stopped, glancing around as if expecting someone to step forward and greet him. Instead, the methodical flow of workmen continued without any sign towards the new arrivals, and the sharp blue eyes turned on Neville with a look of slight indignation. "Ya said ya had somethin' for me, Jackie?"

"I wanted to get here a little early," he explained casually. "One of my friends in the Aurors told me that there's word the RIRA are getting some really interesting 'car parts' from Uzbekistan tonight…the kind that assemble into the sort of 'cars' that have options for single-shot, semi, or full-automatic. Not cheap, so I thought you might run into some very interesting people who would want to look at it." Very technically, it was true. There was word of such a shipment, even if it didn't actually exist, even if the word had come from Hermione as means of offering their unwittingly helpful clerk a reason someone as important as Ulster would be guaranteed to be in place at the appointed time of their trap.

And hopefully, they would run into  _very_  interesting people.

He tried not to show any sign of strain or worry at the greedy gleam in his captor's eyes. If nothing happened, if neither the Sluagh nor, of course, the imaginary weapons and their RIRA recipients appeared, he would have a lot of explaining to do, and he could only hope to pass it off as a bad tip. He hoped Ulster would accept that occasionally even wizards were capable of messing up. After all, he certainly had.

A tiny flare of heat went off in his pocket, and he knew it was the signal that Ron and Hermione were in place somewhere nearby. The knowledge of their presence was a huge relief, and he couldn't keep from looking around, though he was aware that he would never recognize either of them through whatever disguise they had adopted. Well, not Ron, at least. A smile quirked one edge of his mouth unstoppably when he caught sight of a woman who looked in no way familiar, but who could only be his friend, and Ulster noticed, frowning.

"What's the look, Jackie?"

Feeling for the first time in more than a week as though the situation was something other than hopeless, Neville allowed the smile to widen as he pointed across the dock. "There: the lady in the yellow jumpsuit. Just think it's kind of funny the way she's reading that big foreman the riot act like that…doesn't even seem to notice she's having it out with his belly button, but I can't say's I'd like to be him at the moment. What do you suppose he did? Mis-read a shipping code?"

"Ah, probably acted the maggot and knocked the hole off her feckin' sister or somethin'," Ulster snorted dismissively. "feckin' loosebit's all 't same…better off kept piped so's they don't go tryin' to use their mouths for the brain's 'taint got."

He started to reply, but then the Galleon in his pocket flared again, almost painfully hot this time, and his attention was snatched by a swift flash of blue sparks. They could have been nothing more than the spit of a welding torch, nothing worth drawing undue attention at a busy port, but Neville knew the unmistakable look of wand sparks, and there was a tall, lanky man in the shadows of the cargo container where they had come from, gesturing wildly to warn him – but it couldn't be, not here, not wide out in the open under the sodium lights, not with a hundred people able to –

"Jesus, Mary, and motherfeckin' Joseph, boys, I think Billy Ulster may have been mad ouva'tnuff to consider minesweepin' our party."

Slowly, with a feeling as though his heart had grown abruptly leaden and sunken into his boots, Neville turned, not at all surprised to see the nine men standing behind them. If there had been any question left by their greeting, the aggressive postures, the hands rather too casually too close to waistbands and pockets, the elaborate Celtic knotwork that sleeved the thick arm of one and the numbers 1916 across the throat of their leader would have been enough to answer that these were not gentlemen of similar sociopolitical beliefs to the RHD.

To his amazement, Ulster did not seem the least bit alarmed or afraid, and indeed cocked his head at them as if he were being growled at ferociously by someone's teacup poodle. "Danny O'Niell. Been a while, t'has. I were beginnin' to think you were enjoyin' getting' your back doors kicked in behind the wire with McKinnet and the rest o' your fairy friends."

" _Stop it!"_ Neville hissed under his breath, " _I can't take nine armed men, not even with magic, you moron!"_

But Ulster did not back down. Instead, his smile widened, and he called out over his shoulder without turning. "Tommy! Gary! Mark! Dick!"

Like ghosts, the four men seemed to materialize from between the towering stacks of cargo containers. Wickedly sharp knives gleamed in the hands of Gary and Tommy, while Dick was coiling and uncoiling a length of studded chainsaw chain around his leather-gloved knuckles and their suicidal driver, Mark, tapped the barrel of a sawed-off shotgun lightly against one palm. Neville felt himself fall starkly pale. This was not at all how things were supposed to go.

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Ron and Hermione staring at the gathering scene, feeling their gaze along with dozens of others as the dock had fallen eerily quiet. Imminent violence hung in the air like a fog, and his own hand tightened on the wand, knowing that he might have to use it right here in front of so many Muggles just to save his own life. He had no other weapon, nothing but raw strength, and that meant very little when matched against the pistols, the policeman's cudgel, the brass knuckles, and the snapping switchblades that had appeared among their adversaries in answer.

They weren't even supposed to be there, the RIRA involvement was supposed to be an empty ruse, but with a sudden flash of irrelevant insight, Neville realized that the clerk must have been dipping into more than one pie, that he must have passed along the tip about the weapons to exactly the wrong people, and he could only hope, oh, please, it would at least salvage some of this, that he had been greedy or frightened enough to pass it along to more than one person. Because there was going to be blood tonight, there was going to be pain and probably death, and it would all be for nothing if they didn't get the wizard they had been trying to draw out in the first place.

Desperately trying to do something, anything to head this off, Neville stepped forward between the two lines of militants, raising his hands in a placating gesture. "Look, why don't we take this somewhere else? Port Security –"

He was cut off as the dark-haired man Ulster had called Danny O'Niell laughed uproariously at him. "Feckin' hell, Ulster, ya takin' the babes out the woods now? What kind o' shite ya teachin' the filthy Brit to wet hisself over?"

"Jackie there's a lad o' many talents ya don't want to be knowin' or insultin', Danny," Ulster replied coolly, but there was still harsh rebuke in his tone and even an edge of disappointment as he turned his next words on Neville. "Port Security? Ya feckin' shitehawk! Bunch o' plastic peelers paid to scamper around with their little drug puppies and keep kids from fleecin' Nikes. Only way we'll be seein' their bloody white arses t'night's if we catch a gander while they're runnin' for cover."

"Talents, has he?" O'Niell sneered. "Ya like his talents better when he's playin' the pipe for ya or havin' a go on your ring?"

"Ah, not my fancy," replied Ulster quickly, "but I've heard ya can get yourself a bit o' that downtown cheap enough if you're missin' those long'n lovely days after Mass with the Good Father. Feckin' catechism. Teach ya to kneel at all the right times, they do."

It was as though he had lit the fuse on a firework and dropped it into their midst. For a long, breathless moment, nothing happened, no one moved, no one said anything, then the explosion came. As if responding to some silent cue, the two sides surged forward, their shouted insults and epithets mingling meaninglessly, and Neville found himself instantly in the middle of an all-out brawl.

He couldn't use the wand, there was no way he could employ any magic at all in the sight of so many Muggles, but he had never been more grateful that the D.A. had anticipated being disarmed, that he had learned to fight with fists and feet as well as spells and hexes. The training was five years rusty, never actually put into use before, and these were toughened street fighters, but Ernie's massive power filled the gap where skill was lacking, and he ducked beneath the glint of the brass knuckles that swung at his head, coming up hard into the man's stomach with a punch that bowed and snapped ribs beneath it. Something burned across his shoulder and he cried out, whirling to see the reddened blade of the switchblade already arcing back towards his throat, but there was a deafening roar, and the hand holding the knife blew apart in the spray of the shotgun's hundred pellets.

It was chaos, a bloody tangle of bodies and limbs and weapons that bore no similarity to any civilized battle or conflict, but at least the fear was gone. It was the one saving grace of times like these, he had learned long ago. People might tell you afterwards that you had been brave, but that was only because they didn't know what it was like to have that much adrenaline surging terror into a crystal-clear suspension where things just  _happened._ Duck, strike, act, react, the ability to watch dear friends torn apart without caring or to commit acts yourself that would haunt every day you  _could_  think of them after it was over. Not bravery, just survival.

Then, through the madness, Ron's shout sounded clearly, "Neville!" His head snapped around at the welcome sound of a familiar voice with a familiar accent calling his own name. He spun, barely avoiding the backswing of the pipe, and Ron was at his side now, trading blows of his own as he backed the two of them out of the melee. When he realized what his friend was doing, Neville shook his head, trying to re-enter the fray. "I can't! Ulster –"

"He's  _gone_ , mate!"

Shocked, Neville looked around, and sure enough, the leader of the RHD had vanished as if into thin air, nowhere to be seen either among the struggling men or the handful who had fallen at their feet, twisting and yelling and grabbing grotesquely medieval injuries. He glanced back at Ron as they pulled back further, taking a moment once they were at least momentarily out of danger to suck in a deep breath of the cool night air. "The hell's he gone?"

"Dunno," Ron admitted, "think we should look for him? And you're bleeding."

"Wherever he is, it's not good news for us," Neville nodded, checking his shoulder and finding the cut to be barely more than a graze, the bleeding already mostly stopped. "It's nothing, honest."

Hermione had joined them, the tip of her wand barely showing from beneath the cuff of her sleeve even as she held it clearly ready, her dark eyes blazing. "Ron! You  _idiot!_ You go throwing yourself into that after Neville when I was trying –" she cut herself off, shaking her head harshly against her own mounting tirade, then looked up again. "Ulster's in there somewhere," she gestured to the maze-like piles of cargo containers, "I was  _trying_ to tell you, Ron, I saw him; he looked up like he'd spotted something and ran off, just leaving his men to the fight. I think it might have been – "

The two men spoke at once, exchanging a look of mingled elation and fury. " _Seamus."_

Leaving the two gangs to their own bloody problems, the three Aurors took off into the shadows of the cargo containers, wands barely concealed in their hands. At the first juncture, they stopped, spinning from one possible avenue to the next before Hermione huffed, gesturing down the corridor to the left. "I'll take this one. You boys down those two. Anyone finds anything, Galleons and then we might as well risk a Homing Charm."

"Okay," Neville nodded brusquely. "Good luck."

They split up, and he sprinted down the long rows of brightly logoed containers, every sense on alert, his eyes scanning the blackness between them for any sign of movement or magic, his wand held openly now. Better to explain to a Muggle why he was carrying a carved stick than to lose a split-second advantage to one of the fastest duelers in the D.A.

He almost missed it, almost dismissed it as the thrum of equipment, the buzz of an air-conditioning unit or refrigerated container, but some quiet instinct whispered of magic, and Neville skidded to a halt, doubling back cautiously. There, now that he was looking for it he could hear it clearly: the indeterminate buzz of a  _Muffliato_ Charm.

His hand tightened on the Galleon in his pocket, ready to summon Ron and Hermione, but then he stopped, his fingers releasing again only a moment before the pressure would have been enough to set the charmed coin burning. He told himself that he wanted to know for sure, but if he was honest, he already knew what he would find as he eased along the side of the container incongruously painted with images of merrily grazing black and white cows over the word  _Kerrygold_.

The two figures were almost invisible beneath the deep black shadows, but as his eyes adjusted, he could make things out well enough. Ulster was on his back in a growing amount of blood, his body stiff with the familiar rigidity of a Body-Bind Jinx, his eyes already slashed to sightless cups of blood and ichor that pooled in the sockets, trickling surprisingly little down his cheeks as he lay in the enforcedly perfect immobility.

Above him, his back to Neville, a wizard in a dark gray cloak was crouching, one pale hand flashing in and out of view as the knife worked cruelly over flesh that could still feel, still bleed, still burn, still do everything but fight or scream. The cuts would come by the dozens until they reached fifty, he knew, then the name burned into the forehead, then the strike to the chest that would end it, but until then, the victim could be saved, even, most likely, taken to a wizarding hospital as law allowed when it was a wizard who had committed the crime. They would heal him completely, maybe even save the eyes, and Obliviate away even the pain that might come from the memory of the attack itself.

It would take nothing more than a Stunning Spell, a Body-Bind of his own, any one of a dozen, a hundred hexes, charms, or jinxes that any first-year knew, because Seamus was distracted, focused completely on his gruesome work, utterly unaware that the man he had once followed and then tried to kill was now standing mere feet away with a wand trained evenly on the center of his back. It would take nothing at all to save Ulster's life, to end this brutality here and now and forever.

But Neville did not move.

Instead he simply watched, feeling not the slightest twinge of guilt, the faintest hint of remorse or sympathy, no urge to help as the knife did its work, as the letters filled the night air with the stink of charred flesh, as it plunged down again for a last time. Only then, as the murderer was standing up over Ulster's mutilated corpse did Neville raise his wand and send a scarlet jet of light blazing down the little alleyway to strike the cloaked figure directly in the back.

He crumpled, collapsing over his bloodied victim, and Neville's hand squeezed the Galleon hard as he lit the tip of his wand and began to walk towards the two bodies. Up close, Ulster was every bit the charnal house horror that the others had been, but he still felt nothing at the sight. Bending down, he grabbed Seamus' shoulder through the thick woolen cloak, rolling him face-up into the blue light from his wand.

The wizard was covered in blood from his prey, but Neville heard himself gasp as the hood fell back. No. Not Seamus. Not Seamus at all.

Instead, it was a youth no older than twenty, a bit heavy, with dark, straight hair that was cut short and precisely combed, only a scattering of freckles across his snub nose and rosy cheeks. His mouth worked for a moment in wordless shock, then he forced out the name of the young man still so recognizable as the fifth-year Ravenclaw from Dublin he had known all those years ago.

" _Icarus_? Icarus Utterson?"


	7. A Tangled Web

He did not know how long he knelt there, staring blankly at the unexpected face of the insensate young wizard, his head spinning with the impossibility of it all. But he'd  _talked_ to Seamus, the man had all but confessed, and if it wasn't him, why the evasiveness, why hide for so long, why let everyone think he was guilty, let such a price be put on his head? Had it all been to protect Utterson? It didn't make sense.

Neville wracked his memory, trying to find some scrap of evidence that there had been a friendship he had somehow missed. Utterson had been fascinated with the ancestral magic of his homeland, he knew, and had taught the other Irish of the D.A. dozens of spells and hexes beyond the handful they each had from their own upbringing, not keeping the magic from others, but finding it came most easily to those who were already familiar with the complicated vowel clusters and oddly guttural sounds of the ancient language. Still, there had never seemed to be anything more there. They were so different; the plump, bookish youngster who had only survived the battle because he was almost instantly stunned and the tough, high-spirited officer who had according to Ginny at one point held off five Death Eaters at once.

Had it been political, then? He didn't think so. Utterson was from the Republic, and Seamus, though Northern, had rarely spoken of the problems at home. When he did, however, he seemed to feel that the matter had been resolved however unfortunately by splitting the country, and his only expressed wishes had been for simple peace.

His confusion was interrupted as Ron and Hermione appeared at the opening of the alley, wands out and sleeves pushed back, ready to duel. Neville stood, turning and waving them down before either one could speak. "It's okay, he's down. Stunned." He motioned behind him to the grotesque corpse. "Couldn't do anything for Ulster, I'm afraid."

It was true. He hadn't been able to bring himself to save the monster, and there was a flicker of something through Ron's eyes that suggested he might suspect the truth, but if he did, he said nothing, merely nodded. "You got Seamus, then?"

"It's not Seamus." Neville stepped to one side, allowing them to see for themselves. "It's Utterson."

Hermione gaped, looking as if she had been told the law of gravity was suddenly repealed. " _Who?"_

"Icarus Utterson. D.A. kid…not the first one, of course. One of mine. Ravenclaw."

The explanation clearly did no more for either of them than it had for him, and Ron shook his head in disbelief. "Nah, no way, you must have got the wrong man."

"I don't think Neville could have accidentally happened across a random wizard who happened to have sliced up Ulster exactly according to the Sluagh's patterns," Hermione retorted, though her voice was strangely flat with shock as she knelt down, poking at Utterson's limp body with the tip of her wand. "Maybe something else, though. Maybe Polyjuice?"

Neville nodded quickly, feeling foolish that he hadn't considered the possibility when he was himself wearing the body of another. "Yeah! That's probably it exactly!" He flicked his wand, sending shining silver ropes to bind the prisoner's hands and feet as Hermione slipped the wand from his hands, turning it studiously between her fingers, her eyes narrowed.

"What is Seamus' wand, Neville? Fairly light-colored wood, if I remember right."

"Alder," he answered quickly. "Alder wood and Selkie hair. I know because I had to ask him what that was…it was a really beautiful wand, though. Belonged to his great-grandfather, all kinds of carving on the handle."

"Then this is definitely not his," Hermione said, holding the wand up to the light. "Mahogany and phoenix, just a standard Ollivander wand,  _nothing_  carved on the handle."

"Yeah, but that doesn't mean anything," Ron pointed out. "Neville's using Ernie's wand, after all."

She shook her head, frowning more deeply in thought. "The Polyjuice would have nothing to do with that. It didn't help me with Bellatrix's wand at all. But you said the two of you were really close by the time he died, weren't you? And he'd sworn you loyalty, which would be why his wand still works pretty well for you, even though you didn't  _win_  it from him. It knows its owner belonged to you."

"Don't say that!" Neville snapped, shuddering. "Makes it sound like I forced him the way Ulster did me or something. Or like he was my house-elf! Ernie  _never_  –"

"I'm sorry!" Hermione flushed, looking a little startled by the vehemence of his outburst. "I didn't mean it that way at all. I know you'd never do something like that, and even if I didn't know Macmillan particularly well, I do know that he had just as much stubbornness as loyalty. I don't think there was anyone who could have forced him to do anything at all against his will."

"So what you're saying, Hermione," Ron cut across the argument as he stepped carefully around the spreading pool of blood to join them beside Utterson, "is that you don't think it could be him because it's not his wand, Macmillan having nothing to do with anything."

"Exactly," she nodded with a grateful look at her fiancé. "He wouldn't risk using someone else's wand to go out and kill. It might still be someone  _else_ under Polyjuice, since we don't know what Utterson's wand is made of, but that seems pretty far-fetched."

"My vote," Ron pushed the tip of his wand firmly against the soft flesh on the underside of the young man's chin, shoving his head back. "Is that we Ennervate the effing bastard and ask him a lot of really serious questions, starting with why he feels the urge to practice his carving skills on people and where the hell is Seamus Finnigan."

"Best idea I've heard in months, Ron," Neville agreed. "Do the honors?"

There was a brief flare of light from the tip of Ron's wand, and the blood-spattered eyelids fluttered for a moment before opening on a pair of wide, soft gray eyes. They blinked several times, disoriented, then the flush faded from his cheeks as he felt the bonds restraining him and saw the looks on the faces of the three Aurors. "What –?"

"Brilliant question," Ron smiled at him, "actually about to ask that myself. Auror Weasley, Ministry of Magic." He gestured at the other two, "Auror Granger, Auror Longbottom – though him you might remember, if you haven't gone completely off your wand since the D.A., Mr. Utterson."

Utterson looked terrified, cornered, and Neville felt the sense of uneasiness about this whole thing increase all the further. The Sluagh's attacks were bold, daring, almost taunting, but this wizard looked on the verge of tears at merely an introduction. He exchanged a look with Hermione, and he could see the same reservations in her eyes as she stepped forward, her tone crisply official.

"Before you answer any of Auror Weasley's questions, Mr. Utterson, it is my duty that you be made aware of your standing under the Provision of Magical Rights and Liberties. You have been apprehended by officers of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement while engaging in activities reasonably believed to be criminal in nature, and there is intent to hold you in violation of the law. Your wand has been confiscated and may not be returned to you unless you are exonerated of charges by the Wizengamot or equivalent legal due process. Officers of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement may use physical or magical force against you, including such as may cause permanent harm, injury, illness, incapacitation, or death –"

"Hate that permanent death part," Ron interjected lightly, "lots more inconvenient than the temporary kind."

"—if and only to the degree as is necessary to retain you in custody and to safeguard their own welfare as well as that of others. Any statement or incantation you may say or perform, including via non-verbal means may be used as evidence in a criminal proceeding. You are considered to be innocent until such time as guilt is reasonably proven, however your apprehension  _in situ_ is considered temporary grounds upon which you have waived your right to liberty at this time. You have the right to refuse to answer questions, however any false or misleading answers given will result in additional criminal charges. If you believe yourself to be operating under a curse, hex, jinx, or otherwise engaging in your current activities under magical coercion, you may indicate as such at any time. Additional rights and exclusions under wizarding law will be explained to you fully and completely as relevant. Do you understand these rights and exclusions?"

He had delivered the same litany himself dozens of times, but Neville remained impressed as always by Hermione's ability to do it in what always seemed to be a single breath and letter-perfect, even the commas audible in her flawless recitation. Utterson nodded faintly as she finished, and Ron poked him under the chin again, glancing briefly at Hermione with the tiniest of winks as he leaned over.

The couple had, he knew, their own well-honed system for working with prisoners, and Neville was content to stand back and watch as Ron's pleasant face took on a look of distinct menace. "What the beautiful lady means by that, mate, is that you're in deep trouble, because we caught you up to your elbows in that poor bastard you're lying on, and we're authorized to do anything we consider justified if you don't feel like explaining exactly why we've made some kind of serious mistake in thinking you're a sick, sick little Doxie."

"He deserved it!" Utterson whimpered, wild-eyed. "He's killed people, lots o' people, he –"

"Now that's the cauldron calling the kettle black," Ron scoffed. "The Sluagh, which is what I noticed you signed our friend's forehead with, has killed a lot of people too. So what does that make you?"

Utterson swallowed hard, clearly unable to answer, and he had begun to tremble violently, his small, pursed mouth pressing together in a single thin, pale line. Hermione sighed, kneeling at his other side to run her wand through his hair in a gentle, maternal gesture. "Ron, you're scaring the poor kid."

"This poor kid, Hermione," he retorted harshly, "just killed a guy in about the nastiest way I think I've ever seen. I've half a mind to get him to start talking to us by cutting him up the exact same way and see how he likes it!" He jerked the wand back, shoving up Utterson's sleeve. " _Sectu_  –"

"No!" The cry was thin, high, a panicked wail, and Ron paused reluctantly.

"Why not?"

"I did it, okay! You can take me to Azkaban, put me on trial! There! Is that what you want? Your confession?"

"That's a good start," agreed Ron, "but we'd also like to know exactly what you know about exactly where we could find a bloke named Seamus Finnigan. You might remember him: couple years ahead of you at Hogwarts, Gryffindor, D.A. Lieutenant, Irish, 'bout as many freckles as I've got…cast any spells for you?"

Now something more passed beneath the fear in the gray eyes, something cagey, even devious, and he seemed to gather himself a little. "I remember, 'course. But I've never heard from him since. We all kind o' went our separate ways after the war."

"Tragic how people will just drift apart," Ron said sarcastically. "But the thing is, we're pretty sure he's got something to do with this Sluagh business too, and Longbottom and I are really eager to catch up with him. We were all roomies for so long, we've been feeling nostalgic."

"I don't know where he is," Utterson shook his head vigorously, "and you can't use Veritaserum until full legal charges have been filed!"

"Now if you didn't know where he is," Hermione pointed out, "why would you be worried about Veritaserum?"

Utterson's eyes bulged in a look of horror for a moment, then suddenly, all the fear seemed to fall from them completely, and he actually grinned. His eyes closed, and before anyone could react, he shouted " _Claochlaim-fiach!"_

There was a snap, a flare of light, and the robes, the magical ropes, and the cloak fell into an empty, shapeless pile beneath Ron's hands as a large black bird burst up towards the night sky. Three jets of light shot after it, but the dark feathers vanished almost instantly against the starless overcast, and Ron swore violently. " _Animagus!_ Effing unregistered  _Animagus!"_

"No," Hermione said with surprising calm. "Think about Professor McGonagall or Sirius, Ron. There's no flash when they change, no sound. That was Gaelic magic of some kind, really advanced, too."

"I don't care  _what_ kind of magic it was," Neville said bitterly. "He's gone, and we're right back where we started, except really a lot worse off, because now we don't have  _any_ idea what's going on, and that mess," he motioned at Ulster's body, "is not going to be my ticket back undercover."

Ron looked just as frustrated for a moment, then something seemed to occur to him, and a look of hope flashed over his face as he turned to Hermione. "Wait a – did you get it?"

A wicked little smile appeared on her mouth, and she dropped something out of the sleeve of her jumpsuit into the palm of her hand, holding it up to them. It was just a tiny vial, but it gleamed brightly in the shadows, swirling with a misty silver substance within. "Right at the moment you asked him where Seamus was. First thing that crossed his mind. Might not be exactly what we're looking for, but it's something."

Ron laughed, reaching across the gory mess between them to take her face in both his hands and kiss her firmly. "You're brilliant, love, did I ever tell you that?"

"Now and then." She smiled back warmly, then gave the vial a slight shake. "Now come on, lets get this back to the Penesive at the Auror Division and see if we can find where our fox has his lair."

OOO

"Please, Kate, you're not listening…"

"Oh, I'm listenin' just dandy." Mrs. Finnigan leaned back in her chair, her arms crossing tightly over her chest as she glared at the three Aurors seated around her kitchen table. "And what I'm hearin' is that ya finally caught the lad what's been doin' all this, but ya were too damned poor at your jobs to keep him, and now you're goin' after me baby again, and I ain't havin' no part o' it."

"We don't think it's Utterson," Hermione protested, "it just doesn't make sense. Sure, we know he did Ulster, but everything we've been able to find out about him and everything we know about him just doesn't fit with him being the man behind all the other attacks."

"Sometimes folk do what don't make much sense," Kate retorted, "like the lot o' ya still goin' after your own friend even now. Can't keep ya doin' it, but when comes to me, you're done." Her voice brooked no argument, the subject unquestionably closed, then she turned to Ron with an unexpectedly sweet smile. "Ya be havin' more sausage, there? A body'd think your mother never fed ya."

Ron looked down at the few remaining bites of the hearty breakfast she had insisted on preparing for all of them and nodded sheepishly, blushing. His mouth was still too full to answer, but Hermione sighed deeply, rolling her eyes. "His mother feeds him plenty, Mrs. Finnigan, and so do I, I promise…no one's really been able to ever figure out where he puts it. Ron's just a particularly corporeal Vanishing Spell, I think. By all rights, he should be the size of an elephant. I'm so sorry…."

Kate laughed, pushing the last two sausages from the cast-iron frying pan onto Ron's plate, then adding another thick scoop of porridge for good measure. "Not a word, love, no need be sorry. Miss feedin' a young man, I do. Seamus weren't never a big lad himself, but he could put away his own fair share. 'Sjust the way they are, and us witches can't think about it too much or we'll bust o' the jealousy."

"He used to say the food at Hogwarts couldn't compare to yours," Hermione said chattily, and Neville bit his lip, staring down at his own empty plate to avoid saying anything stupidly confrontational. He didn't understand how his friend could just natter on so casually, as if Kate hadn't refused to help them at all, but he trusted her, and he knew she wouldn't be letting it go this easily, so he said nothing as she went on. "Really made me feel sorry sometimes for any girl that would ever marry him. We all knew she'd spend her whole life trying to live up to you. I honestly think that's why he never had a serious girlfriend, even though half the witches in our year melted every time he opened his mouth. I mean, goodness knows I love Ron with all my heart, but even I've got to admit you raised a real charmer."

"That he is," Kate's smile was a tight mixture of pride and pain. "Sent him to a Muggle primary school, ya know, and he'd be fair furious to hear me tell ya, but I kept the note from the first lass whose teeny heart he broke, I did. All in crayons and letters big's your fist, and she spelt his name s-h-a-y-m-i-s but t'point's clear enough: 'ya kiss me and ya kiss Molly and Sharon too and so ya stink lots.'"

Even Neville could not entirely hold back a chuckle at this, and Hermione giggled furiously, covering her mouth with her hand. "Oh dear!" She shook her head in playful reproach, then her face grew serious again, and she reached across the table to wrap her hand gently around the older woman's.

"Kate, we both know he didn't mean to hurt that little girl, and I don't think he means to hurt anyone now, whatever is going on. He was a good boy, and I believe he's still a good man, I really do. I don't think that who someone is deep inside can really ever change, no matter what happens to them. We both know he's involved in this, whether it's Utterson who's been wielding the knife or not…look at me, Kate, you know it's true. We're both witches, we've got an instinct for things like this, and if it's this strong for me as his friend, you're his  _mother_ …."

Her green eyes dropped to the polished tabletop, and her voice was a jagged whisper as she gave the tiniest of nods. "Ah, sometimes I wish it weren't so."

"I can't imagine how much this has hurt you." Hermione had leaned in close, and as Neville glanced at Ron, he saw that he wasn't the only one who felt like he was invading on something completely private and intimate between the two women. "It's awful for me to even think about it, and you've done everything right, you really have. We've been tracking down Death Eaters for years now, we always start with their families, and I've always been able to see something there that set them down that path. And I can swear, I can  _swear_ to you, Kate, you haven't done anything, which is why I really, truly believe that there's more to this than meets the eye."

"I've already told ya I ain't nothin' to say, and I don't want ya tearin' apart his things." Her tone was still stubborn, but there was something else as well, and though he couldn't identify it, Hermione seemed to hear volumes, and he was surprised to see tears well in her brown eyes as she squeezed Kate's hand.

"I know they're all you've got left of your baby. It must be about the only thing that makes it bearable; being able to go in that room and look around and feel like he's going to come walking through the door any second –"

"—Turnin' all kinds o' red and sayin' I ain't 'sposed to go nosin' in his room without his permission, like I ain't the one changed his nappies and wiped his nose." She chuckled in a way that was almost a sob. "Aye, you're old past your years, girl."

"There are only two witches left in the Auror Department," Hermione replied, "so Ginny and I always wind up getting sent when the boys have chickened out about an upset witch. Rapes, murdered and missing husbands and children, having to tell witches that their loved ones are Death Eaters or informants…I've seen more of other women's pain and how they handle it than I ever wanted to by twenty-three."

"Then ya know, love," there was an awful resolve in Kate's eyes as they finally lifted to meet Hermione's, "why I can't be lettin' ya."

"I know why you're afraid to. We've got a memory from Utterson, the odds are excellent that the flat in it is where Seamus is hiding out, but we can't just go barging in and try to duel or capture him, not when there's magic here we can't restrain, disarm, stop, or fight. Our last chance is to try and get Seamus to talk to us willingly, to tell us what's going on, to cooperate. And our last chance of  _that_  is anything we can find to break through to him, and  _that_  last hope is upstairs." She took a deep breath, nodding her head towards the two wizards. "I'll keep them out of it if you want. They wouldn't understand about re-folding things just right or using a Barrier Charm on your hands so that his shirts still smell like him. But please, Kate, let me look…take me upstairs and we'll see if we can find your son."

OOO

It was past noon by the time the two witches came downstairs again. Ron and Neville had passed the time awkwardly, arguing good-naturedly about the Chudley Cannons vs. Puddlemere United, playing cards, talking about the efforts to restore Grimmauld Place, and generally avoiding the subject that hung in the air like a poison mist that underlined every tick of the carriage clock on the mantle.

When Kate and Hermione did return, it was clear that they had both been crying a great deal, their eyes red and swollen, their faces blotchy, and they hugged like sisters at the foot of the stairs before the younger woman turned to them, smoothing her robes with a deep breath and announcing simply that it was time to go. Neville felt foolish and inept as he shook Kate's hand, thanking her and knowing exactly how weak it must seem to offer his hopes that it would all work out somehow. Ron did the same, his own words stilted and shallow with an awareness of how much they had missed, then they followed Hermione out of the little house to the street beyond.

For a long time, she said nothing, not even appearing to notice their presence as she strode quickly along the sidewalk past the neatly trimmed gardens and hedges. It was only once they had left the neighborhood entirely and were back into Belfast proper that she paused at all, and when she did turn back to them, her eyes were haunted, sickened, her face so pale that it seemed impossible she could still be standing. "Ron –"

Her voice choked off on the single word, but she didn't need to say anything else. Ron wrapped her tightly in his arms, and she seemed so tiny curled against his chest. He stroked his fingers slowly through her bushy hair, rocking her gently back and forth as her shoulders shook with deep, aching sobs. "It's all right, Hermione," he whispered, "we're going to get through this, I promise. You were amazing, love, just incredible in there. Neville and I could never have done that."

The sobs came harder at first, then she sucked in a deep breath, her arms still locked around his waist as she looked up into his eyes. "Promise me something."

"What?"

"Promise me when we have our own, promise me that if they ever –" she hesitated, swallowing hard, "—just check me straight into St. Mungo's or Stun me until it's all over. I don't know if I could be that strong."

Ron shook his head gently, pushing back the hair from his fiancée's eyes. "You're the strongest witch I know…but I think I might have to Stun you anyway to keep you from tearing the wizarding world apart if one of our kids ever did anything like this."

Her eyes closed, and she ducked her head against his chest again. "I'm a monster."

Ron's brows raised, and he exchanged a startled look with Neville over her head before reaching down to lift her face again and kiss her gently. "That's ridiculous. Why would you say something like that?"

"Because I know what we're going to have to do. Kate and I – oh, god, Ron, it's the only way, and I don't think I could ever have been brave enough to agree with it, much less think of it if it were my son, but she's right." She shuddered, looking like she might simply be sick right there, and Neville reached out a tentative hand, resting it carefully on her back.

"What do you mean, Hermione? What's the only way? Did you find something?"

She did not look up, but her words were clear even though she spoke them into the crook of Ron's arms. "They call it Kill-or-Cure. When someone had a terrible, hopeless fever, the old wisdom was to throw them into a frozen stream, then plunge them into a scalding bath and back again until either the fever broke or the shock killed them."

Neville frowned, confused. "You think we should throw Seamus into ice water?"

"No. But it's the same thing, and he won't be able to fight back with Gaelic or any other kind of magic, because he'll be too disoriented. We're going to shock him, shock him horribly, shock the deepest parts of his heart as hard as we can, and it's either going to yank him back to reality and then oh, Merlin, we can only hope he'll listen to reason…" she paused, and the last words came on a bitter razor's edge of self-hatred. "…or whatever's left of his mind is going to snap beyond all hope."

OOO

He had wondered how he would find the flat within the building that they had traced down from Utterson's memory, considering everything from careful Legilimency to Trans-Visibility Charms, but the answer was so much simpler that Neville couldn't quite believe it. Right there in the entry hall, messily written on the little slip tucked behind the yellowed window of the post box for number 24 was the name S. Finnigan. On the bloody mailbox.

True, he knew it wasn't nearly as brazen as it appeared. After all, though perhaps not quite at the level of anonymity of Pat Murphy, S. Finnigan did not exactly narrow it down in Belfast. Even Seamus Finnigan turned up more people than they could ever hunt through, as Ron had found out at the very beginning of their investigation when he had been naïve enough to suggest they simply check the Muggle telephone directory, which his father had told him was where all Muggles listed their whereabouts. Yet there was still something about seeing it there, in Seamus' own familiar handwriting, that made it all feel so much more real, and that made it all so much harder.

It was wrong.

There were no two ways around it, Neville knew perfectly well that what they were doing was immoral on a dozen levels; deliberately pushing a man's sanity to the breaking point, deliberately causing so much pain and such a shock, but he hadn't been able to find another option any more than the rest of them. Other than just turning their backs on the whole thing, of course, and that was even more immoral.

He had never thought he would miss his final year at Hogwarts beyond recollections of the friends he had lost, but at that moment, he would have given anything to be back in the old stone castle under the dark reign of Snape and the Carrows. Things had at least been simple then. Who was right and who was wrong, who was on what side. Even the revelation that Snape had been Dumbledore's man hadn't changed that he was fully their adversary that year, and Runcorn's allegiance hadn't made the loyalties of the rest of his house any more complicated. He almost laughed as he thought of how difficult his choices in the D.A. had seemed at the time. Merlin, but he'd been young. Young enough that he had mistaken pain for complexity, things that hurt for things that were truly vague in morality.

Neville had never imagined that any form of innocence had survived the war, but Ulster had been right to call him that. Not any more, and he understood now the prematurely aged, frighteningly dark core that had always lurked behind the rakish sparkle in Seamus' eyes. There were no innocents here, no truly guilty either.

Protestant, Catholic, Agnostic or Pagan, Nationalist, Loyalist, Neutral…they were all right and all wrong and there was so much more pain in all of it than Riddle had ever brought, because it affected everyone, not just the wizarding world and a scattering of overlap, it had all gone on so much longer, and even though it had eased greatly, it still showed no signs of ever truly ending. All you could do was choose how you were damned.

He did not believe in a God or a religion as most Muggles seemed to find comfort in, but as a wizard, he knew there was  _something_. You couldn't feel that kind of power running through your body, your blood, your heart and not know that you were tapping something bigger than you ever could be, and that it was a something that certainly had some kind of conscience, whether or not a consciousness.

It knew the intent of your heart even when you didn't, and there was always a cost to the dark kind, a reward when it was used truly for good. Indeed, it was because magic –  _real_  magic,  _deep_ magic, the kind he'd only felt a few times in his life, not just simple little spells – was so awesome, so humbling, that he did not believe in a religion. It just seemed presumptuous to try and put words or rules or names on it, though he understood why others would want to.

It actually seemed appealing at the moment. Neville wished there was a simple book or set of rules and lore he could turn to now, find chapter and verse that would tell him exactly where in the awful gray this fell, what repercussions he could expect, what atonement he could perform. Hermione and Ron were outside, he knew, ready to act as cover if Seamus tried to run, but actually going up the stairs was his task, actually doing this to the man he had once called a brother was his task, and not even when he had prepared to face Riddle himself had he ever felt so utterly alone.

His hand braced on the banister of the rickety, stained staircase, but he could not make his legs move. As if a charm held him in place, he found that he could not uproot his feet from the floor, and he felt his knees bend against his will, all but collapsing beneath him as his head and shoulders sagged, his eyes closing in silent supplication.

_Whatever there is, whoever you are, whatever makes me what I am, I know it's for a reason. I've seen too much come together when it all seemed impossibly random to not believe it's all some kind of plan, but oh, please, let there be a reason for this too. Stop me if I'm making some horrible mistake. Let the magic fail, please. Stop me if this is truly wrong, and if you don't stop me, give me the strength, the courage I need to carry it through._

There was no resonant voice from the ceiling, no deep surety, no sudden flash of enlightenment, but when he opened his eyes again, there was also no change to the hands that gripped the peeling paint, and he sighed in resignation. This was stupid. If he kept delaying, they were going to miss their window, and there was no telling when or if they would ever get another.

 _Stand the hell up and go do your job. It doesn't matter if he was your friend, he's the one who changed that, not you, and he's the one who forced this situation. You can beat yourself up later if you simply feel you must._ The voice in his head was his Gran's, firm and no-nonsense, and he got to his feet, squaring his shoulders as he climbed the stairs and walked the length of the ramshackle hallway, counting off the numbers, even on the right, odd on the left.

At last he stood in front of number 24, and he hesitated only the briefest of final moments before he raised his fist and knocked hard, rattling the door slightly in the frame. Three times he knocked, then stepped back, holding his breath without really realizing it as he waited for the answer. He did not know really what to expect, so his wand – his own wand – was in his hand, held low and out of sight but ready to come up instantly if he found himself under attack.

Yet when the door opened, his old friend did not appear ready to attack at all. He was dressed casually, barefoot in old, faded blue jeans and a white t-shirt, and his hardened features showed only a mild annoyance. "T'hell took ya so long? I'd think ya had to go to China to get me fe –"

Seamus stopped mid-word, his mouth dropping open, and there was a faint clatter from behind the door that he knew was the sound of his wand falling from suddenly limp fingers. His face fell not just white, but pale gray beneath the freckles and the vivid blue of the knotwork tattoo, and the combination of pain and joy that flared in the bright blue eyes was agony to see.

For a long, suspended moment, they just stood there, facing each other, then Seamus surged forward, and the movement was faster than anything Neville had ever known possible before. There was no chance to react, no chance to do anything before the other man's hands were on his face, gripping it tight and pulling it down, and this was the last thing he had ever expected among ten thousand potential reactions, because Seamus was kissing him, kissing him harder and deeper and more passionately than he had ever been kissed before, tongue thrusting and lips seeking so hungrily that it seemed as though he was trying to devour him, consume him, make him a part of himself.

It was savage, even painful, but there was so much more in it, so many things he couldn't even begin to recognize or understand through his own shock, and all he could do was gulp in air and try to breathe when Seamus finally broke their mouths apart. His hands still gripped the sides of Neville's head like iron bands, keeping their foreheads together as he gasped a breath of his own, the sound a thin, rattling, perfect union of heartbreak and ecstasy. "Oh,  _Merlin…Dean…."_

Seamus's hands slid down the sides of his head, running frantically over his cheeks, his neck, his shoulders and chest; pressing, stroking, seeking and petting him as his face shone with a manically rapturous light. "Oh, mercy," he murmured, "I thought – I  _saw_ – but no, oh, no, 'cause here ya are and ah, what a fool I was, what a bloody feckin' fool, that's what they musta been tryin' to tell me, and I wouldn't listen, I thought – sweet Jesus,  _Dean.…"_

Neville shook his head, trying desperately to regain his bearings. It had backfired, backfired completely. He had no idea, had never guessed that there was anything more than friendship between his two former roommates. The intention had been to shock Seamus, to collapse his system with the sight of his long-dead best friend and either take advantage of the confusion to capture or interrogate him. The idea had come from their previous use of the potion with Ernie, the few hairs gleaned from Dean's old hoodie in Seamus' room, and something from an old Muggle playwright who according to Hermione had used the appearance of ghosts to extract confessions and information from characters in some of his most famous works, and for all that it had seemed cruel, it had also seemed likely to work.

Now, however, it was Neville who was stunned, who couldn't seem to make his limbs move or his mouth work, while Seamus had apparently completely accepted that he had somehow been wrong about the man whom he thought had died in his arms, and was now yanking open the collar of his robes, flattening his palms hard against the dark skin to feel the living pulse as he continued to talk a mile a minute. "Why didn't ya c'ome sooner? Ah, but I've made it hard to find me, I have. Me own fault, neverthemind. None o' it matters, none o' it matters at all. Plenty o' time to be catchin' up, we have, and I've plenty to tell ya. Name o' Mab, Dean, I truly, truly thought ya gone. I was so sure. So sure. Hurt like sweet blazes, feckin' near killed me, tried to drown meself in t'feckin' whisky, hated meself every feckin' day."

Seamus was a full head shorter than Dean, but there was a preternatural strength to the raw emotion, and his shoulders were tight with wiry muscle, yanking the larger man through the doorway with what seemed like no effort at all and shoving it closed behind them. "Such a fool I was, such a fool. Stupid 'fraid o' what folk'd think. Every day…what if I'd just said t'hell with it? What if I'd just let ya kiss me, not like I don't fancy witches, don't make me nothin' wrong. But heaven's a darlin', ah, she is, and here ya are, and I shan't be makin' no mistakes twice over, not when you're here, not when you're real, not when you're livin' and breathin' and warm under me hands again when I'da sworn on me life ya were cold in the grave…."

His mouth and his hands never stopped moving as the words tumbled over one another, and somehow, Neville wasn't sure how, his robes were on the floor, both their shirts off, and he could see now that the line of knotwork ran all the way down the side of Seamus' neck, spreading into an elaborate, intricate pattern that covered his entire torso. It was breathtaking, speaking of hundreds of hours of pain endured to form the ornate patterns that framed dozens of Celtic crosses, each inscribed with a name.  _Creevey. Patil. Brown. Macmillan. Thomas. Corner. Whitby. Boot._ They were all there, every single one of the D.A. they had lost, and the living graveyard was the most beautiful and terrible thing he had ever seen.

Seamus kissed him again, then stopped, pulling back with the flicker of a frown. "Dean?"

He was too confounded to fight, especially against who knew what kind of magic and the truly deranged rage that he knew would come if he were to admit the truth now. Neville needed more time, a chance to gather himself, to try and salvage this, to find the questions that he knew had been on the tip of his tongue just minutes ago and recover the upper hand this whole thing was supposed to have given him. He needed time, and there was only one way to get it.

His eyes closed.  _It's not me. It's not my body. It's Dean's body, and I'm just trying to save so many lives here…please, Hannah, oh, please understand somehow. I love you so much, I'd never cheat on you, I meant it. Please understand how mental this whole thing is._

Taking a deep breath, Neville reached out, the dark hands stark against the flushed, freckled pallor as his own mouth lowered to meet his friend's. It was so different from kissing a woman. Seamus' mouth was rougher, drier, there was the faint scrape of stubble too fair to see but rough under his lips and fingers, and it was strange, strange and wrong and yet there was still something amazing in the pure love with which the other man responded, even if it wasn't really for him.

Then it was all happening too fast to even think any more, and to his shock, he could feel his body reacting as well. He didn't know if it was simply a matter of physical stimulus or if it was because Dean had apparently been inclined to such things – and now it made so much more sense how Ginny had complained that he never seemed all that interested when they snogged – but there was no arguing that it was happening nonetheless, and it was frighteningly foreign.

Something bumped firm and soft against the backs of his legs, and he sank down onto the bed, his hands tangled in Seamus' long hair, feeling it slide silkily through his hands as the leather thong tying the ponytail pulled away and it fell free over his shoulders. It was cool on his fingers against the hot skin, and Seamus' mouth was skimming across his chest, kissing and sucking, his tongue flicking in ways that made his back arch against his will, his hands fist tight as he heard himself moan.

It was wrong, oh, so wrong, he had to stop it, had to stop it before it went too far, but it was already so far, and his hips were moving against the pressure of Seamus' body between his legs, and the other man's voice was the soft and musical babble of water over the pebbles of a streambed as it slid across the complicated syllables of his own native tongue in words that he couldn't and didn't need to understand. Dean's name slipped in and out between the meaningless phrases of loss and love and need and so many years of hurt that he didn't realize hadn't really been undone.

There was the rasp of a zipper, and as the cool air hit his flushed skin, it seemed to snap him back to reality. He shook his head harshly, bracing his hands on the bed as he tried to squirm away. "Seamus –" he gasped, "No! You can't, I –"

"Hush, t'sokay, mate, I want to, really," his breath was warm and so close, sending a shiver up Neville's spine, "I've had a long time to think on it."

"You don't understand, I –"

He had no chance to finish, no chance to explain, because another voice rasped across the dimly lit flat, chuckling roughly as both men froze in shock. "Well now, ain't this a surprise. I'd been hopin' ya'd lead me to me little fox, but I can't say's I were expectin' ya'tve gone darky, nor to lead me t'his bed."

Without a moment's hesitation, Seamus yanked away, whirling and throwing himself towards the door where his wand had fallen. He almost reached it, his fingers only inches from the delicately worked handle, but there was a flash, a bang, and the young wizard crumpled to the ground bonelessly as the scarlet light struck him in the side.

Neville sat up slowly, his pulse hammering in his throat not from panic or arousal now, but with the dreadful helplessness of being cornered. The man was tall, with black robes heavily worked in stylized trees and animals, edged in some of the most complex knotwork he had ever seen. His hair was shoulder-length and dark, streaked thickly in gray, and his beard was almost completely gray, falling nearly to his chest from below a silver half-mask inscribed with ancient-looking runes and symbols that hid his eyes and the upper part of his face. The wand in his hand was thick and gnarled, looking more like a raw root or branch than a proper magical tool, but there was a menace in its very crudity, a sense of primal power, and he did not dare move as it leveled coolly at the center of his chest.

His mouth was as dry as dust, and he licked his lips, his voice shaking despite his efforts to put up a bravely defiant front. "Who the hell are you? What's going on?"

"Can't ya guess, Longbottom? I hadn't taken ya for that much a fool." The wizard chuckled, nodding towards where Seamus lay. "Your little friend tried to tell ya, didn't he? Tried to warn ya, but I should thank ya for thinkin' him mad, or I'd be havin' to deal with the both of ya instead of ya leadin' me so kindly to him."

Neville's eyes widened in horror as the terrible truth dawned on him. "You're the Diabhal Dubh. You're real."

"More real than ya at the moment," he sneered. "You'll have a lot o' explainin' to do when he wakes up, I'd reckon."

"Then you're not going to kill me?" He allowed his voice to sound thin, frightened, his eyes wide and vulnerable, but his hand was sliding fraction by fraction along the comforter at his side, easing towards where he had dropped his own wand, where he could feel the smooth cherry had rolled against the back of his hips. If he could just keep him talking…. "Or do you just mean to kill Seamus?"

"If I'd meant to kill him, he'd not be breathin'. Not that I don't want him out o' me business. But that's where you're so lovely useful, lad, and where it's in me best interest that he not be dead but locked up as a madman rantin' off his head about phantoms. You're goin' to see that he's taken to Azkaban and out o' me hair, and you're goin' to get yourself out o' this country and leave Irish business in Irish hands. I think you've learned well enough where your nose don't belong these last few weeks, and I'd ask ya to think on those lessons well."

His fingertip brushed the edge of the polished wood. Just another fraction of an inch…. "And why should I do that when it's pretty obvious he's not mental?"

"Because I've got friends, Longbottom, and me friends have your friends as we speak."

The wand was there now, solidly under his hand, but he stopped, feeling all color drain from his face. "You –"

"Mister Weasley and Miss Granger ain't been harmed, but if come twenty-four hours from now, Mr. Finnigan's not trussed up tidy in a British jail along with his little friend Utterson and I don't have meself proof that all Utterson's fool notes and ramblin's been burned, well, that'll just have to change." A hard, cruel smile passed over the mouth beneath the half mask. "And I'd take me hand into the open without the wand if I were ya, Mr. Longbottom, for if ya make me kill ya, there won't be a soul what can help t'others, and I'll have to kill Finnigan too, no matter how much he'd be more useful t'me disgraced."

Frustration and rage knotted sickly in his chest, but Neville released the wand, extending both hands palms-up at his sides. "Your fight isn't with Ron and Hermione!" he protested, "How dare you –"

"Don't tell the devil what he dares, boy." The dark figure took a slow step forward until the tip of the crooked wand was just brushing Dean's tight black curls at his forehead. "Now you'll be takin' a wee nap, and I'd only hope you're a fast talker, 'cause I don't think that potion's gonna hold until ya both wake up, and if I were your little friend, I'd feel a mite betrayed, I would."

There was a bang, the world flared red, and then everything seemed to shudder, and Neville's world collapsed in on itself in silent blackness.


	8. Revisionist Loyalty

He was bound. The first thing that penetrated the haziness of the fading Stunner was the sensation of ropes circling his wrists and ankles, pinning his arms to his sides and his legs together, and the last of the spell's effects vanished almost instantly in the wild surge of adrenaline that came with this realization. Neville yanked at the ropes, knowing that it was useless, feeling the faint tingle against his skin and the perfect smoothness of them that said they were magical in origin, but the instinct to struggle was too fierce, and it was only when the knife touched his throat that he froze.

It was a very familiar knife, though he had never actually seen it before. Shining and silver, with an ivory handle carved in the likeness of a wolf, the blade about eight inches long, an inch and a half wide. Single-edge. He had seen what that knife could do, and the look in the vivid blue eyes of the man who held it to his flesh now spoke of cold experience and an unflinching willingness to wield it again.

A shiver ran through him as the last few moments before he had been knocked out returned to him, and he licked his lips, trying to summon his most rational, reasonable tone. "Seamus –"

"You'd best give me an excellent reason why they shouldn't just find your body." His former friend's voice was pitiless, cruel, but there was a wellspring of such pain and betrayal beneath it that he felt the shame twist in his gut almost as sharply as a second blade. "Because the only reason I can come up with is friendship, and that's somethin' you've hard turned on me."

Against his own better judgment, Neville heard himself chuckle blackly. " _I've_ turned on our friendship? Seamus, you tried to  _kill_ me!"

"Ain't tried yet," he spat. "Folk I try with, I succeed, and they don't do so much throwin' fool accusations as they do screamin' and beggin…when I feel like lettin' them.'"

"Then you  _are_  the Sluagh?"

"'Course I am!" Seamus let out a snort of disgust, rolling his eyes, but the knife never wavered. "Is that all ya care about, Auror? Aye, fine, it's me, been me all the while, 'cept when I sent Icarus to the little party you'd planned for me. Didn't truly think me so much an idiot, did ya? Ya set on me trail, then the RHD lands themselves a wizard outa nowhere and I get handed a man I've been huntin' for a year bloody near gift-wrapped?"

Neville frowned in confusion. "But if you knew…?"

"Still got him, didn't we?" The knife twitched a fraction, and he felt it just barely pierce the skin of his neck, the razor edge no more than a shaving nick but eloquent in its threat. "But you've still not given me a word o' explanation why ya thought yourself fair to pull this kind o' shite on me after I'd let ya walk in the name o' what we once had."

"Trying to burn me alive is your idea of letting me walk?!" Neville made no effort to hide the scorn in his words. "You started this, Seamus, not me! You've been the one killing people, you're the one who couldn't give me proof the Diabhal Dubh was real when I gave you the benefit of the doubt, you had my robes wired, set a trap in my room, tried to kill me the very same day your time ran out! Yes, what I did was wrong, but you more than forced my hand, and I never had any idea you and Dean were –"

Seamus' face flushed abruptly, his voice a tight hiss of rage. "What Dean and I were ain't none your business, Auror!" His hand moved almost too fast to see, and Neville gasped in pain as the old scar across his left cheek was slashed open anew. "He was one o'  _us!_ A Gryffindor! D.A.! He gave his  _life_ for ya, and ya had no right, no feckin'  _right_ to use him for your sick little games!"

"All right! I'm sorry!" Neville could feel the blood running hotly down the side of his neck, and he moved his mouth only gingerly as he spoke, the whole side of his face throbbing violently. "I'm sorry! I had no choice!"

"Ya could've left well enough alone! Gone back to England if ya didn't believe me!"

"I might have! I was already starting to think that I couldn't do it, not to an old friend, but  _you_ made it this way!" He licked his lips, tasting the rich, salty copper sweetness as it ran into his mouth, the sick familiarity of it pushing his own anger past the fear. "You're mental, Finnigan! You need help, and I wish I could give it to you, but I think you're just too far gone, especially since you don't seem to remember what you tried to do to me!"

"For the last time, Auror, I told ya, it weren't me." The knife, now gleaming red with his own blood, returned to Neville's throat as Seamus leaned in so close that he seemed about to kiss him again. "I said I couldn't protect ya if ya chose not to believe me. I don't have enough people, I can't watch your arse if you're tryin' to run me down. But I'd never have raised a hand against ya, and if you're too stupid to think o' someone who would after what I know ya saw standin' in this here same flat…."

Neville's eyes narrowed skeptically. "The Diabhal Dubh doesn't want me dead, he wants you. He used me to lead him to you…though I swear, Seamus, I had no idea he was even real, much less that I was being watched."

"That I'll believe," Seamus laughed coldly. "And sure enough, maybe he's found more useful things for ya now, but maybe if you'll be admittin' I weren't set for the loony bin on him bein' real, and if maybe you'll be admittin' I've been playin' cat and mouse with this bastard for two years now and keepin' myself a step ahead, then maybe you'll be willin' to admit as well that I might know what I'm sayin' in that he's the one what wanted ya cooked. Not that you'dve been the first. Lost two o' me own, I have, in 'tragic accidental fires.'"

For a long moment, Neville was quiet, staring deep into the frigid, angry depths of the other man's eyes. They were hardened beyond anything he had ever wanted to see, all signs of the jovial, easy-going boy gone without any seeming trace, they were boiling with homicidal anger and more pain than any human being should ever have been able to endure, but they were sane. Completely sane, and the surest sign of their madness had been a figure who had stepped from myth to prove himself real already. Slowly, he nodded. "Fair enough. I'm sorry I didn't believe you, Seamus. I don't think you're mental anymore."

"Oh, ain't that a lovely relief!" came the caustic reply. "Moved to tears, I am. Now, if ya don't mind, I don't think I'm gonna forgive ya. See, I still fancy you'll be tryin' to turn me in if I let ya live, and after what you've done, and what I still need to do, I don't think I'm goin' to lose much sleep over it either."

The elegant wand came up into Neville's vision, and he knew in sudden horror that he was about to be struck with the Body-Bind, the ropes removed for the same gruesome ritual he had seen once in person and over a dozen times in photographs. His pulse was pounding frantically, as if trying to get in every possible heartbeat before it was stilled, but he managed to gather himself enough to shout out one final hope of reasoning with the other wizard. "Ron and Hermione!"

Seamus paused, the wand still poised in one hand, the knife in the other. "What o' them?"

"The Diabhal Dubh, he has them! He gave me an ultimatum after he stunned you! Told me he'd taken Ron and Hermione hostage – they were my backup, and I believe him, because if he hadn't, they'd have been up here long before now – and that I had twenty-four hours to turn you and Utterson in."

A flicker of shocked distress passed through the blue eyes, then they turned to ice again. "Dangerous line o' work, Auror. They knew what they were getting' themselves into. Can't say's I won't mourn them, for oh, true I will, same's I've mourned all the others, and same's I'll even mourn ya, believe me or no. But that's three more crosses on already too many, and ugly or not, 'tis worth stoppin' more than I could ever wear."

"What if I did what you wanted me to in the first place?" Neville offered quickly. "Joined you! This is what he  _wants,_ Seamus! You to kill me and get me out of the way or me to turn you in…he wants us to take each other out, because if you're right and he was one of Voldemort's, he knows who we are, and I think he's afraid of what we can do if we join forces, much less if we get more of the survivors together."

He held his breath, feeling the wound throb in time with his racing pulse as Seamus considered it for what seemed like forever before finally nodding tersely. "You've a point, ya do." The point of the knife pressed against Neville's throat again, stopping on the very thinnest edge of breaking the skin. "But ya listen this time, and remember I ain't mad. I've learned magic ya don't hope o' knowin', and if ya turn on me again, ever's we breathe, you'll be dead and I'll be gone, and from what ya say, Weasley and Granger'll be dead's well – or are they both Weasleys now?"

The simple question took him by surprise, and he actually faltered a moment before answering. "Engaged, actually. They're not getting married until we're out of the Auror Division."

"Haven't had time to keep up, I've not," Seamus shrugged. "So have we an understandin', Auror?"

Neville nodded. "I understand perfectly." It was the truth, even if he couldn't swear as to what his duty would be if they somehow escaped this tangled mess after all, but Seamus seemed to know that, and he made a small, satisfied little noise, sitting back on his heels on the bed and slipping the knife into a sheath at his belt.

"Best be movin', then. Reckonin' he started countin' from when he told ya, we've lost ourselves an hour o' our twenty-four, and I don't feel too cozy here no more as 'tis." He flicked his wand almost casually, and the ropes vanished, allowing Neville to sit up cautiously, flexing his limbs and carefully daubing at the gash on his cheek. Seamus had already hopped lightly off the bed and was rummaging in a closet, producing all manner of loud clanks and rattles. "Ya armed?"

Neville looked back towards the bed, relieved to see that his wand was still where it had been when he had been stunned, and he picked it up, running his hands carefully over the smooth surface to check for any overlooked damage before he answered. "Yes, he left me my wand."

"I don't mean a wand, Auror." Seamus straightened, turning back, and there was an elaborate collection of black straps in his hands, draped over two large boxes. "Not everywhere we'll be expectin' trouble's gonna be a place we're fair to use magic, 'specially if he's plannin' to use Ron and Hermione for a human sacrifice as I think he is."

Neville's mouth dropped open in horrified shock. " _Human sacrifice?"_

"Blood rites," Seamus responded calmly, kneeling on the floor and opening the first of the two boxes. "Old Druid mess, like I told ya he's in. But there's magic in those don't react kindly with our sort, and there's Muggles he's crossin' with besides." The first set of straps had resolved themselves as he pulled them apart and slipped them over his torso, proving to be a double shoulder holster with places for both a knife and a Muggle handgun. He cinched it tightly, then hiked up the leg of his blue jeans to fasten a second holster at his ankle before looking up at Neville curiously. "Ya know how to use a gun?"

"No idea," Neville shook his head. "I've just seen them a lot more than I ever wanted to these last few weeks."

"End with the hole in it points at the bloke ya want dead, and ya squeeze this part to make it happen." He indicated the trigger of a compact but still obviously lethal pistol before sliding it into the holster beneath his arm and snapping it tightly in place. "I'll tell ya more later, for now we need to get out o' here…I'm startin' to feel itchy, and that ain't no good sign."

Seamus added a second, smaller pistol at the ankle holster, then tucked his wand into the sheath at his belt that already held the wolf-handled knife in a separate slot. Two more handguns, a great deal of ammunition, and more strapping that Neville had a strong feeling he would soon be expected to wear himself were reduced with magic, then tucked into a small rucksack along with some rolls of parchment, a wad of Muggle money, and a host of other things hastily yanked from drawers and shelves. When he finally pulled on a shirt and a thin leather jacket over the lethal array, he looked more like a rock musician than a walking arsenal, and he grinned with shocking brightness at the expression on Neville's face.

"Ya know who the biggest fool in all this is, don't ya?"

"Who?"

"Diabhal feckin' Dubh."

Neville raised one eyebrow curiously. "Because he gave us a chance to team up?"

"Oh, we ain't a team, Auror," Seamus said airily. "I ain't half forgiven ya, and I don't know if I ever will. We've just got t'same enemy, and I don't turn down someone who'll help me fight him if he's got a CV like yours…but no, Auror, that ain't the mistake. Mistake he made's the same one his old boss made: givin' us time."

"You're right," Neville smiled, and the pain from his face mingled with the rush of adrenaline at having survived twice over already, the terror he felt for his friends, the lingering suspicion of his old friend and uneasy new ally, and a dozen other things that combined into a heady, reckless thrill. "So if he's made his mistake, where do we start taking advantage of it?"

OOO

"Utterson, Callahan, Kennedy, Leary." Seamus gestured to the four men clustered around the little table in the dark corner of the Chinese restaurant, taking his own seat as Neville rather awkwardly did the same. "Ya lot know the Auror here, and he's kindly decided upon havin' a bit o' a face-to-face with our good friend the Diabhal Dubh that the gentleman in question ain't no figment o' me imagination. Decided to join our little cause, he has, and that's a good thing, as it looks like things're comin' to exactly the head ya thought they were, Icarus."

Neville frowned, seeing the grave looks exchanged by the little band even as Seamus took a pair of chopsticks from the cup at the center of the table and began filling his plate from the steaming platters of dumplings, rice, and juicy, sauce-glistening bits of meat. "You expected this, then?"

Utterson hesitated, still clearly more than a bit nervous at suddenly being expected to share a table casually with the officer he had barely escaped arrest from less than a day ago. "Well, I had a strong feelin' he'd be about ready to act, and there are only certain days you can initiate something like this. If he's taken hostages, particularly a male and female enemy of magical blood, he's not goin' to wait for another opportunity that might never present itself."

He wasn't hungry, despite having had nothing to eat since breakfast and it being almost nine at night, but Neville knew that he needed the food and that they had no guarantees when there would be more, so he nodded gratefully as Callahan passed him a heavily mounded platter of spring rolls, taking two for himself and then following Seamus' lead on the rest of the strange dishes. "This has to do with the blood rites, then? The old Druidic magic?"

"Everythin' to do with that," Utterson nodded around a mouthful of noodles, and his expression was far more confident now, with an almost disturbing gleam in his eyes as he launched into the topic that Neville knew had fascinated him for years. "It might be easy for some o' us to forget that it could be anythin' other than the anniversary of the battle, but tomorrow is the first o' May, and that's an extremely important date in the old calendar. It's known as Beltane or May Day, and it's mostly a fertility thing, but it's also my pick for when he'd make his move, because one o' the old names for it is Walpurgis Day, which would be significant to him, and it sanctifies the passin' o' old times and the entire theme o' re-birth, renewal, and beginnin's."

"With you so far," Neville said slowly, "but correct me if I'm wrong, because I'm far from an expert here, but when I think of old May Day stuff, what comes to mind is maypoles and a lot of ritual snogging."

"There's definitely an element o' ritual sexuality, no question," Utterson agreed quickly. "But if you want to do it really no-holds-barred, the way I think he will, it's a lot more than that." He paused, his face falling suddenly pale. "Oh dear, that's a lot different when they're real people, isn't it?"

Seamus reached across the table, jabbing the young wizard with the tip of his chopstick. "Aye, but it's been real people the whole time, so ya can save the shock that there's a world outside your old parchments for later. What's he like to do to Ron and Hermione?"

"Well…." Utterson cleared his throat nervously, staring down at his plate and pushing the food around aimlessly as he went on. "Hermione is a young woman, a captive, and even though I'd venture to guess she's not a virgin precisely, she's never born a child, so…um, odds are she's going to be ritually raped. By the Diabhal Dubh himself first and last, but probably by every man in his circle, too. They'll use some fertility rituals first, though, because the intent will be to get her pregnant as a blessin' on the new endeavor; an enemy womb bringin' forth life from their strength and conceived on the Sabbat."

The bite Neville was about to take dropped limply from his fingers. His appetite wasn't just gone now, he felt actually sick. "That's –"

"She's the lucky one," a shaky smile flickered over Utterson's mouth and then vanished. "Ron is a man, and not only that, but as Harry's best mate and a Pureblood, he powerfully symbolizes the enemy and the old ways. He's even a ginger, and that's considered a sign o' strong magic too. They're goin' to take blood, and probably, er…other things. Fertility things." He glanced significantly down at his lap, and every man at the table winced. "Those will be placed in the Beltane fire to 'purify' them and then eaten by the Diabhal Dubh before they start havin' a go on Hermione, which he's goin' to have to watch…and since we're talkin' real wizards here, I'm guessin' they won't give him the mercy o' passin' out, either. When they're finished with her, they'll take some of the blood and…fluids from what they've done to her and smear it on him, then he'll be made to walk into the dyin' fire to symbolize both the passin' o' the old ways and the Death in Passion that the ancients associated with sex. That part's fatal."

Callahan let out a low whistle. "Folk go on like it's some great tragedy that the Catholic priests wiped out the old religion, but from where I'm sittin', the only tragedy's that they didn't do a better job o' it."

To Neville's surprised, Utterson bristled sharply at this, his round cheeks flushing as he sat up rigidly straight, facing the Auror with a look of harsh indignation. "They  _did_ wipe it out, Callahan! That's the worst part o' this whole thing! It was never a codified thing like the Mass or the Bible, it was just a set o' loose traditions and beliefs that varied from one High Priest or Priestess to the next, and we don't even know if they actually did things like this or if the really awful stuff was just made up by the Romans to justify the murders and attempts to stamp it all out because it threatened their power. You can do the same magic by lightin' a candle and dippin' a sanctified knife into a cup full o' water! This isn't about religion any more than the lunacy between the Muggles, it's about power and terror!"

"It's still a pile o' Pagan –" Callahan retorted, but he was cut off as Seamus swatted him hard on the back of the head.

"Hush, both o' ya! Icarus is right, this ain't about religion." He looked sternly from one to the other, then gave a satisfied nod. "The boy's known what he's talkin' on so far, and I for one ain't gonna sit by and let even half that be done to two fine people in the name o' another Dark Lord risin' himself, so we'd best look at what we've got to do here with our time tickin' away."

Neville took a deep breath, gathering himself as he tried to force the horrifying information into something he could distance himself from enough to think properly. "Obviously, we need to find where he's going to do this, rescue Ron and Hermione, and try to take out the Diabhal Dubh and as many of his followers as we can in the process. If he really is trying to make this night some kind of twisted debut, that's good for us, honestly, because it means they should all be in one place." He glanced at Seamus questioningly. "How many exactly do you think he has."

Seamus sighed, then nodded towards the man he had introduced as Kennedy. "Last count, Pat?"

"Sixty, maybe closer to seventy," came the unwelcome answer, and Neville swallowed hard, feeling the blood drain from his face.

"And we have?"

"Countin' ya among us?" Seamus paused a long moment, seeming to consider the matter carefully before answering. "Six."

"That's  _it?_ Just who's here?!" Neville exclaimed incredulously.

Callahan laughed bitterly. "Ain't a lark to convince folk'o somethin' they don't want to hear at the best o' times, and all the less when you're tellin' them the peace they've wanted so bad might not be peace 'tall, and then try to do it on rumors and shadows…well, your little friend Harry Potter might be able t'tell ya a thing or two about how easy that is. They'll play deaf for ya, give ya a bed or a meal, but to fight…." The thick shoulders shrugged in resignation. "Best we've been able to do's try to keep his numbers down by takin' out those we think're like to join him or those we know already have, and to try and do it such a way's folk'll think twice if he gives them an offer. Fight legend with legend o' our own with Seamus there takin' the role o' the Sluagh."

"I've been pretty much on me own, Auror," Seamus said bluntly. "Icarus' the brains o' the business, Callahan and Leary're me ears in the law so's I don't get landed in Azkaban while I'm tryin' to save a world don't want to know it needs savin', and Kennedy's me own personal Diagon Alley. Flat bastard he is, real piece o' human scum –" the insult was delivered with a half-joking wink, "—but the son o' a banshee knows where his bread's buttered, he does, and he gets me what I need, whether it be books or bullets. I like to think it's 'cause he believes in what we're doin', but I suspect it's 'cause I had him at the tip o' me knife when he showed some excellent negotiatin' skills and decided to stop sellin' to the other side."

"What about the D.A.?" Neville asked, pulling the charmed Galleon from his pocket and placing it on the table. "I think the survivors would be more than willing to believe you if I backed you up, and there's no group of people who'd be less thrilled to see it all happen again, not to mention we've all been in battle before against lousy odds."

Seamus' eyes narrowed as he leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. "So nice to know they'll believe."

"They'd believe you too if you'd stayed in touch," Neville fired back. "But you can't just vanish from the face of the earth for five years and come back with a mad story without people suspecting you've gone off your wand."

He made a reluctant noise in the back of his throat, then nodded almost imperceptibly. "So we've got what, two dozen of us what lived, not countin' ya, nor meself and Icarus, nor Ron and Hermione?"

"That's about right if you counted everyone," Neville said slowly, "but there's less who can fight. Bagman, Dobbs, Madley, Perks, and Vance were permanently disabled. And Susan, Angelina, Megan, Sinead, and Salome are all either pregnant or have young children, and I don't think it would be right to ask them to risk it."

Seamus' eyes widened incredulously. "That many?"

"Megan and Zach are working on their third, actually." Neville smiled a little sheepishly. "He's an Auror now, like a lot of us, and he's really made up for what he did before, but yeah, there've been a lot of babies all around. Hannah's made it extremely clear that she expects me to make up for lost time the second I'm out."

"Ya married her, then?" Utterson asked, and although it felt strange to be simply catching up on old times in the midst of deciding once again who could be potentially spared to die, Neville nodded.

"Five weeks ago. We got engaged properly exactly four years ago tomorrow, actually. I've been trying to keep her out of what I've been doing with the Aurors as best as I can – she runs the  _Cauldron_  now – but I'm thinking we should probably go ahead and call her in too. I love her, every instinct wants to send her as far away as possible, but she's too good as a witch. We need every wand we can get." He spoke with as much casual conviction as he could muster, but it was hard. The idea of even possibly losing Hannah now, after everything, after they'd survived so much….

A hand touched his shoulder, and to his surprise, it was Seamus, a softness in the blue eyes he wouldn't have imagined possible anymore. "That's a hell o' a thing, Auror. Not that she ain't a grown woman free to make her own choices, but ya coulda chose not to tell her, and I know that."

"Yeah." He shook his head harshly, dispelling the knot that had begun to form in his throat and forcing himself back to business as he rapped his knuckles against the gleaming yellow coin. "Luna's too far away to make it in time, but we can send word to McClarren, Robbins, Dunstan, Chambers, Winchcombe, Bell, Forrest, Brocklehurst, Peaks, Russell, and Summerby, plus the Potters – you  _can't_ have missed that Harry and Ginny got married, it was all over the magazines for a bleeding month – and that gives us…."

"A dozen more. Eighteen all told," Seamus responded. "If we include Ginny, but I ain't bringin' Harry into this."

Callahan gaped at his leader as though he had suddenly announced a life-long ambition to become a Death Eater. "If we can have  _Harry Potter_ , man –"

"No, Seamus is right." Neville had been watching his old friend's eyes closely, and it was almost like the connection they had once shared as he understood why the other wizard had made his decision. "It's because of exactly the way you're reacting, Callahan. We all saw Harry take down Riddle, and that was something so powerful that it's really easy to forget he doesn't have half the actual fighting experience of the rest of us. Not to mention there'll be a very dangerous expectation that he'll pull another one with the Diabhal Dubh, except there's no tapestry of backfired curses and wand loyalties and blood-bonds this time. And at the same time, if they take down the Boy Who Lived, that alone would be enough to give him claim as stronger than Riddle. We can't risk it."

"You're talkin' like he's just a bloke, Auror," Callahan scowled, "Potter's –"

"We were  _all_ just blokes," Seamus said quietly. "I ain't no legend meself, Brian, no matter what we've been pushin'. But the Auror and me lived with Potter for years, and he's sayin' true. He were brave, aye, brave and good and stronger than he ever shoulda needed to be, and what he's done deserves every page it's gotten in every book, but we were just a bunch o' kids with a bit o' magic in our hands and way too much on our shoulders."

There was a long silence at this, then Kennedy picked up the Galleon, turning it over curiously. "Is this real gold, Auror?"

"Yes." Neville snatched it back, drawing his wand and keeping it carefully beneath the edge of the table. "And that's the least of its value, so if you were having even the first thought of trying to get me to part with it, I'd suggest you abandon that immediately. It's how Seamus and Icarus and I and the rest of the D.A. communicated under the Death Eaters' noses, and it's how we're going to bring back as many as we can now so that we can have a chance at this."

Utterson was pale as he fidgeted with the cuff of his shirt. "Seventy to less than twenty. I don't see how that's much of a chance."

"More than half are Muggles," Callahan pointed out helpfully. "Magic's got a real edge on them, t'has, so it ain't so bad."

"And after all," Seamus added, and there was an air of sarcastically exaggerated confidence to his tone as he rolled his eyes towards the paper lanterns that bobbed cheerily on the ceiling above them. "We're only goin' up against magic o' the darkest and oldest kind what don't even have proper rules and tryin' to mount a rescue and kill ourselves the next Dark Lord with no time to get our shite half together and usin' the remains of a kids army five years disbanded. Without the odds, it'd liable be boring."


	9. Still Recruiting

"Merlin's hat, Wally, I'd not've known ya if the Auror here hadn't said your name! You're a bleedin'  _giant!"_ Seamus shook his head incredulously, and Walter Bell laughed, shrugging.

"Six feet's not a giant, Finnigan, and I'm not fourteen any more. Getting taller, being able to talk without my voice breaking on every other word, getting this –" he ran one hand over his dark, neatly-trimmed goatee with a smile, "—it happens. It's called time…but you're one to talk about changing! What's happened to you? Where the hell have you  _been_  all these years?"

Ginny nodded down at them from where she had perched herself on a stack of crates in the half-empty warehouse Kennedy had offered them as a place to re-assemble the D.A., fidgeting eagerly with her wand. "That's what I think we all want to know. I mean, I was certainly expecting that we'd do something for the fifth anniversary of what happened, but I can't say I was expecting to get called out to a place like this and told not to bring Harry, much less seeing  _you_ again. No offense, Seamus, but I had kind of written you off."

"Yeah, mate." Jimmy Peakes looked more than a little suspicious as he stared at his former housemate, arms crossed tightly over his chest, the deep scar that still twisted the side of his face giving his scowl an air of rather frightening menace. "You buggered out of the memorials, all the funerals, the weddings, even the party we had when Cecily was born. Not to put too fine a point on it, but I was a little pissed off. Last surviving Lieutenant can't be bothered to show up?"

Seamus bristled, his face flushing brightly, and Neville stepped between the two men quickly, raising his hands. "Look, we honestly don't have time right now to go into Finnigan's personal issues. If you want to be angry that he missed so much of what we've all been doing the past five years, you can take that up with him later, but I know you all still trust me, and I called you together again because we've got a serious, serious problem, and he's the only one who really knows what's going on, so I'd ask you to listen to him, please."

There was a long silence, broken here and there by mutterings that Neville suspected were only half-intended not to be heard, then finally, Demelza raised her hand. The gesture struck him with a stronger pang of nostalgia than he had expected…it was like the meetings in the Room of Requirement again, a schoolchild's gesture, but Demelza was far from a child any more, a grown woman of such striking beauty that most people took a long time to notice that one dark eye was crafted from motionless glass. "Is it something to do with the Death Eaters? Have they decided to use the anniversary to make trouble?"

Neville's answer was cut off before it could even begin by a loud  _crack_ , and a dozen wands appeared instantly, pointing at the wizard who was shaking his head, clearing the disorientation of the Apparition as he looked up. "Am I too late? I just heard from Goldstein, but he has to send his regrets…those kids they adopted brought a nasty case of Fire Flu from the orphanage, and he can't –"

"But what are  _you_  doing here, Smith?" Neville interrupted, frowning. "I didn't even ask you, because last I heard, you were going to be a dad again any day now."

Zacharias blushed in an odd combination of what looked like pride and shame, glancing down at his feet and shuffling them awkwardly on the worn concrete floor. "Yeah, well, whatever's going on, from what Tony said, you were all told to come really urgently, so I thought it was probably pretty important. Meg said to tell you she'd be here too, except she can't be all that fast on her feet when she can't see them."

"You should take a picture of them for her if you're gonna keep her going like this, Zach," Jimmy chuckled. "Something to remember them by. Didn't your oldest just turn four in what, January?"

"Yeah, but still," Zacharias looked at Neville, his shoulders squaring as he raised his chin defiantly, "I made a mistake last time. If the D.A.'s getting back together for something important, I'm not going to walk out on you guys again. I know I can't undo what I did before, but –"

"No, Zach, thank you. It's appreciated, and I mean that." Neville waved the other wizard down as he turned to address the friends scattered around him in a loose circle. It was strange seeing them all together again, the faces both so familiar and so changed, and it emphasized all the more achingly how many they had really lost that awful night to see how few remained. He had to remind himself that not all of the missing were gone; that even Hannah had said she'd need a few hours to get someone to watch the _Cauldron_ before she could come, and besides, there was no time to linger in memories, or there would be two more places in the circle that would never again be filled.

He rubbed his hands together briskly, clearing his throat as he pushed himself back to the matter at hand. "Lets get down to business. We don't have a lot of time…actually, we only have about twenty-two hours."

He nodded respectfully at Seamus as he continued. "There's a former Death Eater who's calling himself the Diabhal Dubh, an Irish phrase meaning 'Black Devil', and he's decided that with the position vacant, there's room for a new Dark Lord."

Rachel Winchcombe groaned, dropping her head forward into her hands and shaking it slowly. "Oh, Merlin, not again! Why is it always  _us_ …?"

"Same reason as last time," Seamus retorted harshly. "'Cause no one in proper power's willing to believe it, so the Auror and I've had to fall back on people we know'd take it serious."

Jimmy's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "I can't believe that if this is a real threat, the Ministry would make the same mistake again so soon."

"It's the Diabhal Dubh who's not repeating his old master's mistakes," Neville said. "He's not trying to take over the Ministry, in fact, he's coming at it from the completely opposite direction…starting in the Muggle world. He's been working among the Muggle criminal underground, offering them magic, promising to reunite Ireland under a banner of old Celtic power and erase the distinction between wizard and Muggle. And he's really been succeeding at keeping himself three-quarters rumor. The Ministry  _is_ worried about him, but Seamus has been submerged just as deeply in that underworld, and he knows a lot more what's going on, even if he can't prove it."

"If he can't prove it, though," Jimmy pressed, "how can you be sure that Finnigan's not seeing shadows? We're all a little jumpy about things, to be fair. I had to get rid of my crup after the third time I hexed her for hopping on the bed in the middle of the night."

Neville exchanged a dark look with his former Lieutenant, then turned back to the younger man, and when he spoke, there was a dark conviction in his voice that implied all too well the ordeal of the past few weeks. "I've been there too. I've seen…things. And I've met the Diabhal Dubh. I can't prove it either, but I give you my word as a wizard and as your old Commander that he's real, and that this threat is real. But –" he shrugged, spreading his hands, "—you don't have to believe me that he's trying to rise to power, because we've got a much more immediate problem."

"This goes back to what you said about twenty-two hours, doesn't it?" Ginny asked. "You say you met him…did he give you some kind of deadline?"

"Putting it mildly," Neville nodded, then hesitated, swallowing hard as he forced himself to meet Ginny's warm brown eyes without flinching as he delivered the news. "Ginny, he's captured Ron and Hermione. He's planning to kill them at sunset tomorrow if we don't stop him, and he has somewhere between sixty and seventy followers on his side, Muggle and wizard both, so if you guys don't help us, Seamus and I don't stand a chance of rescuing them alone."

There was a moment of shocked silence as it sank in, then Felton Summerby slid slowly to the floor, putting his head between his knees. "Tell me this is a joke. A sick, sick, sick joke."

"'Tis no joke, mate," Seamus affirmed coldly. "And ya don't want Utterson to be tellin' ya how he plans to do it, either. Ain't one o' the better ways to be leavin' this world."

Ginny took a deep breath, clearly fighting to maintain a calm, professional façade. "That changes things a lot. I mean, he's my  _brother_ , and Hermione's got to be like a sister to me, no matter who it is who's trying to hurt them. It's only two more wands, maybe, but I'm with you, and I can speak for Harry too. They're his best friends in the whole world and have been for more than half his life!"

"He can't come, Ginny," Neville said sympathetically. "There'd be no stronger way for a would-be Dark Lord to assert his claim than if he managed to hurt – or heaven forbid,  _kill_ – Harry. We can't risk it."

"You can't stop him!" She refuted hotly, hopping to her feet. "He'll –"

"He won't know 'til it's over!" Seamus snapped. "Bran's Cauldron, woman,  _think!_ We can't afford it! I've spent years o' hell tryin' to stop this monster, and I ain't havin' ya undo the lot if I've got to leave ya bound up here 'til it's done!"

"The D.A. fought just fine without Harry before," Zacharias interrupted, flipping his wand in his hand and presenting it to Neville on his outstretched palm, handle-first. "Like I said: I'm yours, Commander."

"Me too," Demelza got to her feet, gesturing at her face. "Hermione's the reason I still have one of these left. She blasted MacNair off me before he could gouge out the other one or just kill me outright."

"Lousy Keeper, but Ron's a good bloke, and if that Deyaba-whatsis has any of his old Death Eater pals with him, I'd like the chance to get in a few words about Andy and Colin too." Jimmy Peakes brought the end of his wand to his forehead in salute.

Winchcombe and Summerby shared a brief look, then both stood, wands outstretched. "Dumbledore's Army."

"I'm sorry." It was said quietly, barely above a whisper, but every head turned instantly to where Walter was sitting, fidgeting reluctantly with the edge of his robes, his face pale as he stared at the floor. "I can't."

"Why not?" Zacharias challenged. "Don't you care about Ron and –"

"Of course I do!" Now Walter did look up, two bright red spots high on his cheekbones in the otherwise pallid visage. "But my mother's never been okay after Azkaban, and I have to take care of her, plus I've got nine year-old twin brothers and a fourteen year-old sister that I'm raising and providing for entirely on my own. If it were just me, I'd have my wand out in a heartbeat, but I've got to put them first. I can't ask those kids to lose someone else after Mum and Dad and Katie."

Seamus hissed in a sharp breath, but Neville cut him off, crossing the warehouse to put one hand on the other wizard's shoulder with a firm squeeze. "That's more than fair, Wally. Nobody's going to hold it against you, and it's not like your family hasn't already given more than should ever have been asked. Can you still help us if I don't ask you to fight?"

"It depends," Walter said cautiously. "What are you asking?"

"Li, Dunstan, Zeller, Brocklehurst, and McClarren didn't answer their Galleons," he explained. "It'd be great if you could track them down for us, see if they're willing to fight, explain what's going on. If they still have the coins, they can use them to contact Seamus or myself and we'll find them a place to Apparate, but otherwise, I'd appreciate it if you'd let them use yours."

Walter nodded easily, looking intensely relieved to still have been entrusted with a role in their endeavor. "Of course! I know Zeller particularly will want to help…she only just finished the last of those Transfiguration sessions and all the physical therapy less than a year ago. I'm sure she'd love to show a few Death Eaters she can do a lot more than walk again!"

"Great, that's settled, then." Neville patted Walter once more on the shoulder, then turned back to the others. "This is Finnigan's home turf in a lot more than just geography, people. He's the one in charge this time, and he's going to fill everyone who's willing to do this in on all the details and tell you what exactly he wants and expects from each of you."

Ginny frowned, surprised. "You sound like you're going somewhere."

"I am," he admitted. "We still have no idea where this is going to be happening, and honestly, Utterson's studies have been a lot more focused on the political and magical than the logistical aspects of what the Diabhal Dubh has been up to, so he and I are going to be heading over to Queen's University to see if we can figure things out." Neville glanced at Utterson with an unspoken command, pleased to see the other wizard begin gathering his things immediately, then gave a little bow towards Seamus. "Your show, mate. See if they remember how to be soldiers."

Seamus made a noise of acknowledgement, then tilted his head curiously. "Whatcha lookin' for at a Muggle Uni?"

Neville was already halfway towards the door, Utterson at his side now, but he allowed a bittersweet, cryptic smile as he turned back. "A girl, Lieutenant. A girl I met at a nightclub."

OOO

He almost turned back. The smell of cigarettes had never been anything more than vaguely unpleasant before, but in the past weeks, the stale burning odor had become indelibly associated with angry young men in dimly lit rooms, with the thick cloud which had surrounded the wait for news whether Sean would live or die, with bitter rants against "Papists" and "Taigs" laced with promises of violence and plans to make those promises reality.

It had been that smell that had mingled with the rich aroma of coffee and the savory scent of frying bacon over breakfast while Ulster gloated brightly over his new pet. It had been that smell that hung heavy in the air while he was forced to use the Cruciatus Curse against a suspected informant, substituting the Unforgivable for cruel demands for magical versions of conventional tortures that would have left the victim maimed for life. It had been that smell that permeated the Kimberley Bar where he had first dived into a darkness he had never imagined the depth of. And it was that smell that now wafted strongly down the hallway between the bulletin boards and the flimsy doors covered with newspaper clippings, bumper stickers, and witty comics somehow related to the various personal interests of the graduate students tucked within.

Neville closed his eyes, trying to force back the wave of nausea as he took a deep breath. He would adjust soon, he knew, become inured to it and unable to smell it, and it might not even be coming from her office anyway. Even if it was, though, Ron and Hermione's lives were worth far, far too much to get worked up over something so silly. Opening his eyes again, he counted off the doors until he reached the fifth on the left, smiling despite himself as he saw the little scrap of newsprint taped just below the name "Laura Brannaghan." It was a drawing of two men standing by torchlight in front of a cave painting of a figure slipping on a banana peel, and the caption read: " _Well, Sanders, I guess it really_ is _the oldest joke in the book."_

He knocked twice, exchanging a nervous look with Utterson as they waited. The girl at the desk had said she was in, accepting the badge that Neville had flashed quickly and officially without thankfully looking closely enough to ask what MoM stood for or what an Auror was, but it seemed like forever before the door finally opened, unleashing a thick cloud that nearly gagged him with the confirmation of his unpleasant suspicions regarding the source of the smoke.

She was unquestionably the same girl from the nightclub, but she looked radically different; no trace of makeup on the milky complexion of someone who rarely ventured into the sunlight, the risqué outfit replaced by worn blue jeans and a green football jersey so large for her that the sleeves were rolled up a half-dozen times to keep from completely falling over her hands. A smudge of blue ink on her lip and the deeply marked barrel of the ballpoint pen tucked behind one ear revealed a nervous habit beyond the cigarettes that heaped in the ashtray incongruously shaped like a cast-iron cauldron on her heavily piled desk, and she blurred the little smear into a bruise-like stain as she chewed her lip in curiosity. "Maddy said there were coppers here to see me, but I ain't done nothin' –"

"You're not in trouble, Miss Brannaghan," Neville assured her quickly, flashing the badge again in barely a glint of brass before tucking it back into the pocket of his jacket. "We just wanted to ask you a few questions about what we were informed is your area of expertise: Ancient Irish religious ritual, to be precise."

Her frown deepened, and he could practically see her brain working as her eyes widened abruptly. "This is about the cop I met at the  _Stray Cat_ , ain't it?"

He nodded, aware that there was no way she could recognize him in his own face and form as the same man she had spoken to in that dim alley. "It is. My name is Neville Longbottom, I'm with a special Ministry Division for…crimes of an occult nature, so to speak, and I'm really hoping you can help us, Miss. There are two officers' lives at stake, so I'd appreciate it if my associate, Mr. Utterson, and myself could step inside?"

The pen fell unnoticed from behind her ear as she nodded briskly, stepping aside and opening the door wide to wave the both of them into the miniscule office. From the inside, it was even smaller than it had appeared from the hallway, even smaller than Neville's own cubicle in the Auror Division at the Ministry. There was barely room for the scarred and clearly surplus desk that had been crammed in, and every remaining inch of room had been heaped and piled with books, files, and stacks of paper brightly speckled with little neon-bright stickers and flags. "Lives at stake, ya say?" She closed the door, turning back to take a smoldering cigarette from the cauldron and suck a deep drag from it. "Ya'd best go to Professor Ryan, then. I'm just a grad student, I am."

Neville looked around for a place to sit, then realized that it was an exercise in futility, settling instead for leaning against a corner of the desk where he seemed least likely to knock anything over while Utterson knelt to examine one of the piles which had caught his attention. "It's very sensitive, Miss," he explained. "We really don't want to involve anyone too highly placed, because to be honest, the community with serious knowledge of Druidic ritual is fairly small, and we don't know who may be involved in this."

Her eyes narrowed, and she looked suspended between suspicion and fascination. "Some kind o' Coven you're tryin' to dig out, then?" He nodded, and she gave a snort of disgust. "No need lookin' up someone like me. Most o' those folk what go 'round slaughterin' goats and scrawlin' pentacles on things got true enough less to do with what I study than the Pope himself. Just bloody teenagers lookin' to shock people by callin' themselves Druids or Satan-worshipers or warlocks or whatnot."

"This isn't just a gang with paganistic trappings, Miss Brannaghan," Utterson straightened now, addressing her with a confidence that was a little disconcerting to hear from the young wizard. "We've been tracin' someone who's attemptin' an actual revival o' the religion, except he's focusin' heavily on the Roman sources as well as the tenth-century Church texts, in addition to some o' the darker aspects of the pantheon with emphasis on Donn, Goibhniu, Bran, Lugh, the Green Man, and o' course promising all the glory of Cuchulainn. Not only that, but he's cut out the Morrigan, Eriu, Banbha, and Fotla, or even Brigid, Tara, or Maeve. Tilts what he's doin' mad off, it does. Disturbin' enough, o' course, but now we have reason to believe he's goin' to perform a full Dark Sabbat for Beltain. The two officers he abducted were a young, unmarried woman and a red-haired young man who's practically a brother to his worst enemy."

The cigarette fell from her hand, burning another dark little hole into the already badly-pocked surface of the cheap carpeting. "Jesus! You're talkin' human sacrifice, then?"

"We're fairly sure o' it. Longbottom here's been given twenty-four hours to get his arse out o' Ireland and drop the investigation as ransom, but I don't believe that this man – callin' himself the Diabhal Dubh, by the way – is half serious in his promise to release the hostages. Not with the quality of the sacrifices and the date." Utterson tapped a calendar tacked up on the wall with a beautiful drawing of a Celtic Goddess above the tear-off pages. "It's just not a coincidence he took them now."

Laura knelt and picked up the still-burning cigarette, crushing it out in the cauldron-ashtray as she began to tap quickly on the keyboard of a computer that was all but hidden behind the heaps on her desk, frowning intently at the screen. "Feckin' Christ…just a second…just a bloody second…got an email….."

There was another burst of rapid tapping and clicking, then she made a little sound of triumph, glancing up from the glowing screen with her cheeks flushed excitedly. "Me friend Brigid, she's the High Priestess o' one of the strongest Covens in Northern Ireland. Now, personally, I think that the extreme yonical focus misses the point of balance just as much as the phallic, but I understand the backlash from the Catholic patriarchy, and that's not really the issue here. She has one o' the best Goddess-based libraries out there, and I got an email from her this mornin'; a proper rant about some new and really secretive Coven that's been recruitin' under a very male-oriented banner o' destructive forces, and she was tryin' to get me to bring as many women as I could get ahold o' – particularly pregnant women or nursin' mothers – for a counter-Sabbat to focus on the live-bringin' energies. I'd bet anythin' that this circle that's got her so worked up is the same one you're talkin' about."

Utterson all but Apparated across the desk, leaning over closely next to her, his eyes almost a blur as they scanned whatever she had caused to appear on the little screen. "Definitely!" There was a pause as he read further, then he gripped Laura's shoulder firmly. "Do it."

"Do what?" she asked, frowning.

"Get the women. Raid the maternity ward at hospital if ya have to, but we could really be usin' anythin' that will cut their magic…and use this thing to tell her that she's right, that it's worse than she knows, and to focus everythin' she's got – the most powerful magic she's capable o' – on neutralizin' this bastard, and give her the name he's goin' by so she can direct it proper. Longbottom and I'll send a few if we can; they won't know naught on the rituals, but they've magic, oh, they've magic fair enough."

Her eyes had widened so far that the whites were visible all the way around the deep blue irises. "Ya really believe in the actual magic o' it, then? Not just the cultural value?"

"More than ya know." Utterson said darkly. "But even if ya don't believe it's magic 'tall, ya can't be wantin' two people killed, can ya?"

"But ya didn't even know about Brigid and her Coven until just now!" she protested. "That can't be what ya wanted from me."

"It's not," Neville admitted. "I don't know your friend, I don't know if Utterson is right or not about her being able to perform any kind of counter-charm, and in the end, it doesn't really matter if we can't find them, and that's what we wanted from you. We need to know  _where_  someone could do this: we're guessing it will be somewhere with a high level of significance in the old religion, but it would also have to be somewhere that about seventy people could gather and do a ritual like this – including a good-sized bonfire and a lot of screaming – without getting bothered by the police or attracting a lot of attention. We thought you might know where we should look."

"Fair enough." She ducked under Utterson's arm, kneeling to pry open a drawer on the desk as she began to paw through the files inside. "There's a few places I can think o' off the top o' me head, but most o' them're practically tourist attractions now…ya couldn't do much o' anythin' without havin' folk take notice. Some o' the Covens still do rituals there, but they have to apply for permits, and I don't suppose your Diabhal Dubh'd be wantin' to go that route."

"No," Neville agreed, "he's been trying to keep himself out of any kind of official notice as much as possible."

"Then you're really lookin' only at three places, and one o' them's 'cross the border in the Republic, though I don't know if he'd see a distinction there. I can print ya out a Mapquest or ya can just Google it yourself if I can find a bleedin' post-it to write them down."

"What?" he frowned, confused. "Uh, if you have a map, that would really be fine, honestly."

She stopped where she had been rummaging through a basket of office supplies, regarding him very oddly. He began to feel nervous, spotlit as the suspicion grew in her eyes, and it was with a frustrating feeling of inevitability that he saw her push the basket aside and stand straight, her arms crossed tightly. "All right, what's goin' on here?"

"I told you, Miss – "

Laura cut him off, shaking her head firmly as she held out one hand, palm-up. "Lemme see that badge again. There's somethin' off about ya boys 'sbeen nigglin' me, and I ain't likin' it. Your friend there knows well what he's talkin', but he don't even know how to scroll an email – oh, don't think I didn't notice – and you're lookin' at me like I'm speakin Swahili 'bout Mapquest as ya stare at me with what I'm half sure're ritual scarifications 'cross that Boy Scout face 'o yours. If this is some kind o' inter-Coven bullshite, I ain't gettin' in the middle. Not to mention if there's officers abducted, why ain't the city crawlin' in black and tans?"

Utterson looked pale, caught, but Neville's eye had fallen on the desk clock exposed by the movement of the various stacks, and the red numbers stared at him like an accusation of how much time they had already spent. He made his decision quickly, reaching into his back pocket and pulling out the thin dragonhide wallet that held his badge. Opening it calmly, he handed it over, watching the confusion on her face grow as she studied it. "S'this some kind o' gag badge?" she demanded, "T'hell's a…a…."

"Auror. It's a kind of police officer, but I wasn't telling you everything before. I'm with the Department of Magical Law Enforcement with the Ministry of Magic…that's the government division that controls and regulates witches and wizards in the United Kingdom."

Her mouth had fallen slackly open, and she shook her head slowly as she handed back the badge. "You're mental."

"No, I'm afraid I'm not." Neville drew his wand and gave it a little flick, causing Laura to let out a gasp of shock as the coffee mug on her desk turned abruptly into a hamster and scampered away. "There's an entire magical world that exists alongside yours, though it has really nothing to do with the kind of magic you study. It's areligious, codified, refined over hundreds of years away from what the Druids did. Maybe the underlying forces are the same, but it's the difference between thinking evil spirits blighted crops and understanding spores and fungal infections."

"Then ya…." She licked her lips nervously, her eyes never leaving his wand. "Ya think you're some kind o' real warlock?"

"Wizard, but yes. Look…" he sighed, "the Diabhal Dubh and what he's up to are real, and so are my two friends and fellow Aurors whom he's taken and is probably planning to kill. We're on a deadline here, and there's a lot of really complicated stuff going on that I just don't have time to explain to you, but the bottom line is we need your help to find where he's going to do this, because it  _isn't_  our kind of magic, and even though Utterson's an expert in the theory, you know a lot more about the best places to try and dig up ancient ritual knives."

The hamster had reappeared, stuffing its cheeks busily with pieces torn from the crust of a sandwich, and she stared at it, stunned, for a long moment before she spoke again, her voice hollow. "Ya know what? I don't care. If ya want to know where someone could do a ritual, I'll print it out for ya, shake your hands, and Blessed Be. Don't want to know. Just don't want to feckin' know, 'slong as ya get out o' me office, out o' me Department, and I never see ya again. Ya come back here, though, and I'm callin' the real police, so feckin' help me."

The two wizards were silent as she fiddled with the computer again, though Neville startled slightly as another device he hadn't noticed hummed abruptly to life, spitting out several sheets of paper that, when she pressed them into Utterson's hands, he could see were maps of some kind. He thanked her, Utterson doing the same, then he tapped the still-gorging hamster again with his wand, turning it back into a coffee mug, albeit one that now had a sizable wad of chewed bread sitting in the bottom of it.

Her face was pale as she picked it up, her hand shaking. "Feckin'…." The word trailed off, and she shook her head harshly, glaring up at them. "Get out!" she snapped. "Ya got your maps! Now get out! Count o' three, or I'll start screamin', I will!"

Neville raised both hands in a calming gesture, opening the door behind him and allowing Utterson out first. "Of course," he said, "and I'm sorry, really I am. But it's okay, you're going to be fine, you don't have to worry about any of this."

"Oh, won't I?" Laura shot back sarcastically. "'Cause I ain't gonna need to get me head examined after watchin' me mug take a nibble out me supper and two blokes rantin' on about bein' real-life –"

A flash of light flared from the end of Neville's wand, cutting her off mid-sentence. " _Obliviate!"_

Before the flash had even faded, he was out the door, shutting it tightly behind him, and he grabbed Utterson by the elbow, pulling the other wizard along at a run and stopping only long enough to perform a second quick Memory Charm on the girl at the front desk. They continued at just shy of a sprint down the long corridors until they passed through the heavy doors of the building and out into the wide brick courtyard of the campus itself, by which time Utterson's face was bright pink, and he was panting heavily as Neville jogged easily to a halt beside him. The younger man was clutching the maps tightly, and he pried them away, laughing as he smoothed them against his thigh, not winded at all himself. "Having a little trouble, Icarus?"

"Hex…you…Commander." Utterson gasped. "Not in…the D.A. anymore…don't have to let Bagman…try to kill me…three times a week. If I like me books…and an extra helpin' o' puddin'…now and then…that's my business, thank ya very much. Never saw me in the red and gold linin' up to play hero, now did ya?"

"True," Neville smiled, "but it doesn't matter, I guess. We've got our maps. Now all we have to do is get back to Seamus and the others and decide where we're going from here." He paused, his head tilting curiously as Utterson uncurled himself, wiping his forehead on the back of his wrist as his face slowly returned to a more normal color. "What were you saying about the witches in there?"

"Meg and the others who're pregnant or have real young babies," he explained, "their magic's incredibly strong."

"Yeah, I know that," he allowed, "but we can't use them in battle, Icarus. None of us could forgive ourselves if something happened. Besides, I'm no expert on babies or pregnancy, but I remember that Romilda had to use some kind of really special magic to tell that Cecily was going to be a girl because a pregnant witch's magic  _is_ so strong that it  _interferes_ with normal magic. Sue could barely get a Summoning Charm to work when she got towards the end, but her room practically had icicles in it because she was hot all the time."

"Not use them in battle," Utterson shook his head, "but if we can get them to that Coven who're doin' the counter-Sabbat, havin' some real witches in their circle would strengthen the ritual quite a bit."

Neville made a face. "I don't want them involved in some kind of sick –"

"I  _told_ ya before!" The flush had returned to Utterson's face, but it was indignation, not exertion this time. "It's not all like that! What they'll be doin' is nothin' wrong at all, even if it's not the 'codified, refined' magic ya were braggin' on in there. The only burnin' they'll be doin' is herbs and candles, maybe a  _symbolic effigy_ of the passin' year, and if there's any blood at all, it'll be just a tiny bit o' the kind a woman passes in the normal – and to them sacred – cycle o' things, if ya must be knowin' the details. But they'll be fightin' him in the greater scope o' it just's sure's the ones we'll have there in person flingin' curses and hexes, and even if ya don't believe a word o' me, it can't hurt, now can it?"

He thought about it a long moment, still not liking the idea of getting the most vulnerable of his friends and comrades involved in such alien magic, but Utterson seemed quite certain that it would be safe, and the former Ravenclaw knew infinitely more about such things than he did. Finally, reluctantly, he nodded. "All right. But you have to tell them _exactly_ what the risks are and what's going on, and for the ones who are actually pregnant, their husbands have to agree too. Those babies they're carrying are half the father's as well."

"I'll start with Smith," Utterson grinned. "He's keen enough on doin' what he can, and they seem to be tryin' damned hard to take the fertility crown from the Weasleys. Oh, and Commander…."

"Yes?"

"I know ya were just takin' a bit o' the piss, but could ya not get on me in front o' the others? Sure enough, I've gotten a bit soft, but I still ain't really fat, and if I remember right, there were a time ya couldn't exactly bounce a Knut off your own abs, sir."

He spoke lightly, but Neville recognized an edge of genuinely hurt feelings behind it, and he winced, remembering all too well the sting of some of the 'fond teasing' he had once taken from the other Gryffindor boys. "I'm sorry, Icarus," he apologized truthfully, "I didn't think about it, and I should have. You know I honestly do have a lot of respect for you, don't you? Ron and Hermione would be as good as dead if you weren't so brilliant on all this, and I know you've been putting your neck on the line a lot to help Seamus. It's hard to remember sometimes that taking risks doesn't come as readily to you guys, but Mike and Terry really taught me to value the kind of extra bravery it takes, and I shouldn't have let myself forget so easily."

Utterson seemed surprised by the sincerity of his words, and he blinked a moment, then a melancholy smile appeared. "Ya ever miss them, Commander? I know they weren't Gryffindor, but for us, they were sure as hell heroes."

"Every day," Neville said quietly. "Of course they were heroes, and I want to stop the Diabhal Dubh from making their sacrifice in vain as much as Dean's or Colin's or Jack's or any other Gryffindor…or Hufflepuff for that matter. We weren't Houses that night, we were Dumbledore's Army. Merlin's wand, you saw how people came when I called. We're _still_  Dumbledore's Army, and we always will be, I suppose. Some things you just can't ever really leave behind."

Pride glittered in the dark eyes, and there was a stronger set to the shoulders as Utterson's chin jutted forward defiantly. "Won't be leavin' Ron and Hermione behind, neither. They're D.A. too." The sparkle in his eyes spread to his mouth in a mischievous grin. "So shall we find a place to Apparate and get back to Seamus so we can do somethin' about it, Commander, or shall we just stand here all night reminiscin'?"

"We Apparate," Neville returned the smile with one of his own, though there was a grim anger underlying it in the freshly revived memories of his fallen friends. "And we show the Diabhal Dubh that it's not the Boy Who Lived he should have worried about, it's the little homework club he started."

"Or properly," Utterson corrected him, "the army that club became."

She was off in the corner with Ginny, tucked into the deep shadows behind a tall stack of crates whose 'This End Up' arrows were all pointing in the wrong directions, but he spotted her instantly. The faint dizziness of Apparition had not even faded completely before he was sprinting towards her; the maps, the mission, everything forgotten in his delighted relief at seeing her again.

"Hannah!" Neville grabbed her as she turned, sweeping her up in an embrace that was almost crushingly tight as he showered kisses into the golden curls. "Oh, Hannah, I've mi –"

He was cut off abruptly as she yanked back out of his arms, and he was shocked to see her pretty face was livid with fury. "You son of a hag!" Faster than he could see, her hand lashed out, catching him across the face with a hard, stinging slap that echoed through the suddenly-silent warehouse. "How  _dare_  you!"

Neville blinked, stunned, one hand reaching up to touch where his cheek burned hotly with the force of her blow. "What –"

"'I'm going back with Ron and Hermione for a week or so,'" she repeated, her tone icy, mocking. "'Don't worry, I'll be careful. I'll be using Polyjuice and Transfiguration like you wanted. I won't do anything stupid.' Were you even  _pretending_  to be serious when you wrote me that, or did you think I wouldn't find out?" Her voice had risen to a piercing shriek that made him wince. "Or did you actually think that  _going undercover with a Muggle GANG wasn't STUPID?!_ Did I  _actually_ marry a head-case? _"_

"Hannah," he said pleadingly, "I didn't mean for things to go the way they did, I was just trying –"

"Trying to get yourself  _killed!"_ She took a deep breath, and for a moment it seemed as though she was going to start screaming all the louder, but then her eyes squeezed shut, and the shout became a sob as her head fell forward into her hands, her shoulders heaving. When words did come again, they were barely whispers through the tears, and Neville felt helplessly sick with guilt as he watched her begin to cry. In the dozen years he had known her, he had only seen her break down like this perhaps as many times, and he had never actually been the cause of it before.

He reached out again, pulling her close and more grateful than he felt like he deserved that she did not push him away this time. Instead she clutched at him, fisting the fabric of his shirt tight in her hands as she pressed her face to his chest, the tears hot and damp through the cloth. "It's not  _fair_ ," she gasped. "First the D.A., and that…that had to be…and I knew…and then the Aurors…and you  _swore_  you'd be careful, that it was just…but nights and nights, Neville…and now THIS! How long am I supposed to put up with this? How long worrying…how long being so scared…I'm your  _wife_ …when can it be  _us_ and not just the next damned thing you've decided the world needs saving from?"

Neville could feel the stares of the others on them, but he didn't care. His eyes closed as he nuzzled his face against the side of her head, his own throat tight with a bitter grief he had never really allowed himself to feel before. She was right, too right. For someone who had never meant to live a dangerous life, it had been six years – six long, hard years – since he had been able to face a day knowing he would see the end of it, since he had been able to really let his guard down, to go to bed without worrying that something would happen in the middle of the night to call him from it for another Death Eater, another fight, another risk that had to be taken in the name of what everyone else took for granted as peace.

"I'm sorry," he murmured, and he prayed that she could hear how truly sincere the simple phrase really was. "It wasn't supposed to be like this. Shacklebolt made it seem like it would just be a matter of tying up a few loose ends to join the Aurors, and this was just supposed to be stopping one vigilante."

"Ron and Hermione captured? For human sacrifices! And Seamus – Merlin's beard, Neville, the man's…." She trailed off, at once aware that Seamus himself was standing only a few feet away as her green eyes widened in fear, flicking towards him and then back to her husband as her voice dropped to a whisper. "He's  _changed_. How can you be so sure that he's right about all this?"

"I saw the Diabhal Dubh myself," Neville replied firmly. "I know he's not mental. Whatever he's calling himself, he's a real flesh-and-blood wizard who casts a very real Stunning Spell. And Ron and Hermione didn't just go on an unannounced holiday to elope."

"So rescue them!" She retorted. "I'm not suggesting we just leave them to whatever this bastard wants to do to them, but why does it have to be more than that? Why can't it just be a hostage retrieval? Why do  _we_  have to worry about whatever else it is he's doing?"

Before he could answer, Ginny had appeared as if out of thin air at their side, her own small, white hand tight on Hannah's shoulder as she looked at the other witch with a deep, aching sympathy. "Because that's how it happened last time, and you know that, and that's why you're really upset. Not because Neville's doing it again, but because it needs to be done again."

Hannah started to shake her head, then the protest faded to slumped shoulders and a shaky sigh. "It's endless, Ginny."

"That's why Harry's staying with the Aurors," Ginny said softly. "I've tried to talk him into going pro Quidditch as a Seeker. He could. He's had offers. So have I, and I think I will take them when my time is up with Kingsley, but Harry's not just scarred across his forehead. I don't think he could ever sleep through the night if he even suspected that another dark wizard was being ignored. Hell, if he had any idea what was really going on here, there'd be no keeping him away. It's  _not_ going to just end. There's always going to be someone, but we can't let ourselves think about that, or we'll all wind up mental. It's one day at a time, you know? Love them and stand by them and sometimes beat them upside their thick heads when they need it." The last was with a half-smile at Neville, and Hannah chuckled faintly.

"It wouldn't be half so bad if he wasn't this dense about everything. How he can remember hexes and spells and jinxes in the middle of a duel but can't remember to pick up his robes or not let the kneazel out into the pub…."

"That's just  _wizards_ ," Ginny snorted. "Grew up with seven of them in the bleeding house. If you're waiting for that to get better, you shouldn't hold your breath. And besides," her smile turned wicked, and she raised one eyebrow knowingly, "all that training does have its benefits. A girl's wand just can't substitute for why we really put up with them."

Neville blushed fiercely as a half-dozen people within earshot of Ginny's comment laughed, and Hannah straightened, pushing her hair back from her face and wiping her cheeks on the sleeve of her robe. "Fair point," she smiled a little weakly, then took a deep breath, composing herself. "I'm sorry I exploded. It was silly."

"No," he shook his head, taking her hand in both of his and locking his eyes on her vivid green ones. "It wasn't silly at all. You were right that I should never have gone undercover without telling you, and it wasn't fair to keep you in the dark and scare you like that. I swear I never meant to hurt you, just protect you, and I –"

"Neville," she said firmly, and there was no trace of a tremor in her voice now. "Just because I'm your wife now and I chose to take over the  _Cauldron_  from my Gramps instead of becoming an Auror like Ginny doesn't mean I wasn't a soldier right there with you. If you think I need protecting, all I can say is that you've never seen a stag party come in on a Saturday night."

"You're right," he acknowledged again. "And that's what I told Seamus – that you're too good a witch to even think of not bringing in. I know you can handle yourself in a fight, and I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask if you're willing to do that again."

"Two 'I'm sorry's and two 'you're right's in under five minutes," Ginny remarked, shaking her head in mock amazement. "Might be a future in this marriage after all, Hannah. If we survive this latest madness, think he'd be willing to talk to Harry?"

"Of course I'll fight with you, Neville," she stretched up, kissing him gently in the same spot she had only recently struck him. "That was never the question, I just –"

"And 'tis all lovely, and aren't we glad to see that little marital hiccup smoothed over, but shall we be gettin' a move on, or shall I ring the Diabhal Dubh and ask if he'll grant us a bit o' an extension so's the two o' ya can have a snog?" Seamus' sarcastic remark came like a shock of cold water on what had in fact been edging very near a kiss, and Neville yanked back, feeling his face flush as he reached into the back pocket of his jeans for the folded maps.

"Right!" He shook his head, drawing out the papers and smoothing them open as he shot a sidelong glance at his wife, grateful to see her rolled eyes were more out of annoyance at Seamus than any actual frustration or hurt. "We've got three possible locations here – and bear with me if I butcher the pronunciation, I promise I don't mean anything by it. Druim Cett, near Limavady, Cruachain, outside Tulsk down in the Republic, and Emain Macha by Armagh. Those were her best guesses, and Utterson seems to agree."

The blue eyes narrowed in frustration as Seamus studied the maps. "Couldn't spread it much the wider without sendin' us to Skibereen, now could she?" He took the first one, turning it slowly in his hands, then called out to his associate without looking up. "Utterson! We go to these places, we apt to see any sign if they're the right ones, or we gonna have to wait until he's proper there? I don't want to be split if we don't need to be; we've few enough wands as 'tis and only me what even knows one end o' a Muggle weapon from 'tother."

Utterson's dark head bowed over the maps a moment, then he frowned, tapping the second one in the stack. "No, there wouldn't be any way to tell more than at most half an hour ahead o' time, not when they can use magic to do most o' the set-up, but that doesn't mean we're out in the cold. My bet's on Druim Cett. There's proper forest there, and he'll be wantin' that. Can't give any promises, but I'd put the odds at, oh, four-to-one?"

"Those're bettin' odds enough for me," Seamus announced firmly. "Druim Cett it is. Now the next matter is, do we set ourselves to wait, or can we afford to let him get goin'?"

"No choice there," Utterson said bleakly. "If we're there ahead o' time, there's too much chance that he'll discover us and run with the prisoners, and then we have  _no_  idea where he'll go. We'll just have to time it carefully…I'd say thirty minutes past sundown will let everyone be there and the ritual well underway, but still in the openin' parts it when they won't have done anythin' to Ron and Hermione yet. The real risk is if they grab them and run when we  _do_ show up."

"We'll just have to follow," Ginny thrust her chin out determinedly, her arms crossed. "If you think I'm letting them go with my brother…."

"No, I wouldn't expect you to," Neville agreed, then frowned, biting his lip. "But especially if he takes them to some kind of stronghold, we could be in a lot of trouble just following them to who knows where. If he goes one way and Ron and Hermione are taken somewhere else, it could mean splitting our forces up to three times. That's dangerous as hell."

"Then we'll just have to prioritize," Seamus twisted the end of his ponytail between his fingers, the gesture clearly a long-standing habit, yet odd to see from the wizard who had worn the sandy locks shorn nearly to his scalp throughout his years at Hogwarts. "As much as I'm wantin' to say we go for Diabhal Dubh first, if there's choosin' to be done, it's Ron we follow. He's the only one they'd be plannin' to  _kill_. Diabhal Dubh second, and Hermione, fair's I like the girl, is just in for a bloody unpleasant time o' it, so if someone's got to be left for the time bein', it's best be her."

"I don't know," Neville said hesitantly, "leaving any of them –"

"Is  _not_  going to happen," Ginny scowled. "I don't care if I have to go alone – not that I think I would, I can promise you I'd have Hannah and every other witch behind me – but I'm sorry, Finnigan, maybe you don't think so, but getting raped by a couple dozen people is more than a 'bloody unpleasant time.' If we have to split up, we follow  _both_ of them and leave the Diabhal Dubh for later. This is about our friends, not your vendetta."

"It ain't my vendetta, Weasley –"

"I'm  _Potter_ , now," she corrected him harshly, "and if you'd bothered to pull your head out of your own arse for two seconds all these years, I wouldn't have to tell you that, so why don't you just get off your –"

The argument was cut off before it could even get fully underway as Utterson let out a terrible, strangled gagging noise, snapping every head away from the two former Gryffindors. Neville gasped in horror as the young wizard fell to his knees, his hands clutching so desperately at his throat that they left deep red grooves in the pale flesh as his eyes bulged. Seamus was at his side in an instant, his wand out and pressed to his friend's throat tightly. " _Anapnea!"_

Something writhed disgustingly through the skin above his Adam's apple, but nothing happened, and his face was beginning to go from red to purple, his eyes rolling back in his head as he swayed dangerously. Seamus glanced around desperately, then his gaze caught an open bag of sweets on the dust-covered desk that had once belonged to some foreman from the warehouse's business days. "Feckin' hell!" he spat, " _Accio Toffee!"_

Again the sickly writhing look, but again the obstruction refused to dislodge, and Utterson collapsed, his lips purplish blue, the frantic scrabbling that had left his neck oozing blood from a dozen deep scratches now faded to feeble twitching motions as his body starved for air.

"Let me!" Demelza shoved past Neville, elbowing Seamus out of the way as she dropped down beside Utterson, "I'm studying to be a Healer!" Her wand tapped and flicked busily as she muttered spell after spell, but he had stopped moving entirely now, and her own face was flushing darkly with obvious frustration as the murmured magic took on an increasingly panicked edge.

Finally, in what was clearly a last resort, she took a deep breath, and a jet of vibrant orange shot from the tip of her wand, slashing through his throat like a knife's blade. He could hear someone retch, but Neville couldn't look away, transfixed in horrified fascination as she tried to pry open the young man's windpipe with her fingers, but even as he watched, he saw something that looked like a blob of pulsating putty expand and block her efforts, refusing to yield to any attempts to dig, shove, pull, or stab it out of the way. "It's cursed!" she cried, "we've got to get him to hospital! Another minute or so without oxygen, and it'll be too late!"

"St. Mungo's then," Seamus' face was torn with a look of care and worry more intense than Neville would have believed him still capable of, and he gathered Utterson up, barely wavering under the load as he stood. "I'll take him meself!"

"Seamus, no!" Neville rushed forward, scooping his own arms under the limp body and pulling him from Seamus' grasp. "You're wanted! I will!" Allowing no time for argument, he closed his eyes, concentrating on the Emergency Ward and turning quickly on the spot.

Nothing happened. He tried again, and a third time, and Seamus looked on the edge of true insanity, his face crimson. "What're ya playin' at, Auror?! He's feckin' dyin'!"

"I can't Apparate!" Neville shouted back. "I'm trying!"

There was a heartbeat's pause, then Seamus himself twisted on the spot, but there was no expected  _crack_ , nothing at all, and he remained resolutely solid as he began to swear viciously, trying again and again with no better results as first Demelza, then Ginny tried as well.

"It's a trap!" Hannah's voice yanked his attention away from the terrifyingly lax mask of unmistakable death that had fallen over Utterson's features, and he looked up to see her standing, wand drawn at the wide cargo doors that had once allowed entire lorries to drive in and out of the warehouse. Her own face was pale, her lips pressed thinly together as her green eyes scanned the edges of the wide space like a cornered animal seeking an unseen predator. "The doors are sealed too. We're locked in. They know we're here."

"D.A. in formation Epsilon!" Neville snapped out the command without thinking, at once pleased and surprised to see the others respond as if their last training session had been hours, not years ago, the tight back-to-back circle coalescing in the middle of the warehouse floor within seconds. Every wand was out, ready for the ambush, the attack, the dark-robed figures from their nightmare memories that were sure to appear any moment. But the attack didn't come.

He didn't know how long they waited, poised and breathless, but finally Felton licked his lips, his eyes darting around nervously. "Where are they?"

"I don't know," Neville whispered tightly. "It doesn't make sense. If they know where we are –"

"If they know where we are, they know who we are," Seamus growled. "And they know we ain't the Witch's Auxilliary, neither. I reckon he'd rather keep us caged 'til he's done his business and don't have to worry 'bout us stoppin' him at it than risk losin' his folk in a fight before."

"But how would he know where we were?!" Zacharias demanded fiercely. "Who ratted?" His eyes were fixed directly on Seamus, and the other wizard bristled, whirling out of his own place in the circle to face the taller man almost toe-to-toe.

"If ya've somethin' to say, Smith, spit it out!"

"All right!" Zacharias didn't seem the least intimidated, and he met the blazing blue eyes unflinchingly. "I'll say that whether this guy is real or not, you've still seemed two ingredients shy of a potion since I got here, and you're the one who picked the spot, so I'm more than a little concerned, especially with a body on the floor that happens to be, as far as I can tell, the only one of us you've had any serious contact with."

"'Concerned' are ya?" Seamus said mockingly. "Sounds more like you're lookin' around for excuses again! 'Two ingredients shy o' a potion!' That gonna be your dodge-out this time?"

Zacharias stepped forward, shoving Seamus hard in the chest with both hands, his face flushed. "I'm more one of us now than you are! And at least I care that a man's been killed!"

Seamus gave a roar of inarticulate outrage at this, and his fist moved so quickly that even as Neville darted out of his own position in the formation along with Ginny and Jimmy to grab him, they didn't make it in time to keep the punch from catching Zacharias directly in the face. He reeled, shook his head, then made to retaliate, but the others had reacted now, and the two wizards were restrained by a dozen hands each as they struggled to attack further. "He were me friend!" Seamus yelled. "He's the one took me in when I was wanderin' half the feckin' country lost as anythin' and drunk off me skull! He's the one told me about the Diabhal Dubh in the first place! Dried me out, saved me feckin' life! Don't ya DARE --!"

"CALM DOWN, both of you!" Neville tightened his grip on his friend's shoulders, shaking him hard as he glared over his head at Zacharias. "The last thing we need is to be fighting with each other! Zach, you apologize, NOW! If Seamus was going to betray us, he's had plenty of chances…we've got to figure out what's going on, and we can't do that if you're flinging accusations and starting stupid fights!"

There was a long, tense silence, Zacharias running his tongue gingerly over the lip that had begun to swell impressively, then at last he nodded reluctantly. "Sorry. I just…."

"We're all scared," Ginny said. "But Neville's right, we can't afford to lose track of who the real enemy is here, and we've got to work together to find a way out of this."

"Kennedy!" Seamus' cry yanked everyone's attention back to him, and his face had lost all trace of the anger that had contorted it moments before, replaced instead now with a look of abject shock. "Sweet Queen Mab,  _Kennedy!"_

Neville frowned, releasing his hold and turning to look at him more directly. "I thought you said we could trust him?"

"Thought we…oh, what a feckin' fool I am!" Seamus clutched his head in both hands, shaking it slowly back and forth as he slumped to his knees. "'Tis the only…he's the one gave us this place, and he'd know, he'd know about the sweets, he would."

"What about the sweets?" Demelza asked. "You think this Kennedy bloke would have known they were cursed?"

"He'd have known  _what_  to curse," Seamus explained, his voice a low, rough whisper. "Always had a bag o' those kind nearby, Icarus did. Habit o' sorts, when he were nervous or thinkin' hard. He fancied that brand lasted longer than any o' the other toffees, and he'd suck one and twist at the wrapper 'til I were ready to rip his bloody fingers off for the damned crinklin' noise. He knew every curse and jinx in the book, woulda been damned hard to take him off his guard with a spell, but if ya knew to leave them 'round, oh, but Icarus, darlin', they got ya there…."

"So Kennedy, whoever that is, is the one who betrayed us?" Rose Zeller put her hands on her hips, frowning. "Was there any –"

"Oh, he were a piece o' work," Seamus acknowleged bitterly, "but fool's I am, I thought I had him scared enough, and he were supplyin' me with all that I needed…though now I 'spose I'm knowin' why we never got proper close to the Diabhal Dubh no matter how we –"

They were interrupted by a bang and a sharp scream, and Neville's head jerked around just in time to see Ginny land sprawled on her back, the wind knocked fully out of her as she was thrown back from the tall, dirt-crusted windows. He started towards her, but she was already rolling onto her knees, shaking her long red hair out of her eyes with a frustrated snarl. "So much for brute force," she snapped, gesturing at a pry bar that lay on the floor beside her. "Won't be breaking the windows any time soon."

"Good try though," Hannah extended a hand, helping the other witch to her feet as she looked back to the others. "Ginny's on the right track. Who did this, why they did it, even Utterson being murdered…none of that matters. We have what, eighteen hours? And now we don't even know what we're really up against with our resident Druidic expert out of the way. We've got to focus on getting out of here and worry about the rest later."

But Ginny was only the first of them to wind up getting flung across the filthy concrete floor. Every spell, every jinx and hex, every trick they knew between them proved useless against the walls, windows, and doors of their prison, absorbed or lashed back at them no matter how strongly they cast the magic. Even working together, uniting every wand in a single  _Reducto_ Curse that should have blasted away half of a small mountain barely rattled the spiders who had spun their thick webs in the corners, and after an hour's hard, fruitless effort, Neville threw his wand down in frustration, wiping the sweat from his forehead with the back of his cuff. "This is stupid! Somebody's gonna get hurt!"

"What's this 'gonna'?" Jimmy looked up from where he was sitting after being knocked harshly back from his latest attempt to melt a hole in the door, grimacing as Demelza cast a Healing Spell over his bleeding knees. "We might as well be waving sticks around for all the good it's doing. Face facts, Commander, we're proper trapped."

"Look, it's past midnight," he sighed. "We've got to get some rest. It'd be worse than stupid to just keep exhausting ourselves on stuff we've already tried, and it won't help Ron and Hermione, either. We'll sleep in shifts. Seamus and I will take the first, then Ginny and Hannah in a few hours, Zach and Felton after that, and we'll just see from there. Maybe the magic will weaken with time – let's check it every hour – and if not, we'll try to come up with something in the morning when we're all more rested."

There was some protest to the suggestion at first, but they were all quite tired, and within a surprisingly short amount of time, they had settled, using Cushioning Charms on the hard floor and conjuring blankets as they each did their best to construct a makeshift bed. The lights were left on, no one wanting to risk an enemy being able to come at them unseen, but at last, the sounds of soft, deep breathing filled the warehouse, and Neville and Seamus were alone, sitting on empty crates at either side of the stubbornly sealed entrance.

The silence hung thickly between them for a long time, then Neville took a deep breath, staring out the grimy windows into the featureless darkness beyond to avoid having to meet the other wizard's eyes. "I'm sorry about Icarus. Sounds like you guys got pretty close."

It seemed for several seconds as though he was going to be ignored completely, then Seamus nodded almost imperceptibly. "He were a good man."

"How did you two…?" Neville trailed off, awkwardly unsure of whether he was treading on safe ground.

"Spent the first while after the war at me Mam's," he said quietly. "Outa me head on whisky sunup to sleep every day, wouldn't even come out o' the basement. Think I were tryin' to kill meself, lookin' back, though I didn't have guts enough to just stick me wand to the side o' me head and blow it off. Didn't want nothin' more to do with the D.A., with the whole world, really. Maybe for the rest o' ya it were a grand thing, but even now, lookin' at all the scars, all the wreck that were made o' the few what did live out that night, all I see's a waste, a damned, sick waste."

He looked up, and his eyes seemed to glow with a breathless rage that the years hadn't dimmed at all. "They can give us all the medals they want, put up all the bloody monuments, but that don't change that the whole wizarding world let that bastard rise twice over, and that it took a bunch o' children to lay down their lives to put it to a stop. Where were the ones we were supposed to feckin' trust? Oh, I ain't meaning the Order, nor even Dumbledore, come to it, but that were what, a few dozen ever? O' the whole wizardin' world? If we were able to take the shite and survive the curses and take the risks to rebel, why couldn't they? Most thought Harry dead or gone, so it weren't that, it were flat cowardice. How  _dare_ they ask ya to be an Auror for them after? To pick up the pieces o' the mess  _they_ forced us to shed our blood over in the first place? They can call us their heroes, but damned if we shouldn't be their shame!"

"It's not right," Neville conceded, "but I don't see how you thought burying yourself in alcohol was going to change that. Why not go to the  _Prophet_ with what you just said? Make yourself heard if it mattered so much."

"Ah, Auror, ya always were a naïve little dear, weren't ya?" There was an affectionate patronization to the tone that made Neville's shoulders tense angrily, but he bit his lip and refused to rise to it. "Ya think they'd have printed what they didn't want to hear? No, weren't no use to it, and I didn't – and I don't – true care how folk feel about it now, for's all too late. What's past is past, and it don't bring the dead from their graves no matter. But I couldn't set me eyes on the world what had done this to me and me mates, nor could I bring meself to close them for good, so I just blurred it all, I did. Blurred it and soaked it and got to where I were takin' down enough each day to black out a man twice me size. Drove me poor Mam over the edge it finally did, but I 'spose I should be grateful, or there's I'd still be."

"I know about your mother," he shifted on the crate, resting his elbows on his knees and leaning closer with a rueful smile. "It was the first place I went when I was trying to hunt you down. She tried to protect you, you know. Tossed out everyone who'd been there before me, and the only way I even got her to admit that she'd been hearing from you at all was that I guessed about the Galleon since she wasn't panicking as much as a mother should if she really knew nothing. Do you have any idea how much she loves you? How scared she is for you now?"

"Aye, I do." To his amazement, Seamus actually had the grace to look ashamed as he nodded. "But I can't bring meself back to her like this. Not yet."

"And you think catching the Diabhal Dubh is going to change anything?" Neville pressed. "You said yourself nothing can bring back the friends we lost."

"It's  _somethin',"_ a spark of such raw desperation had appeared in the piercing gaze that he had to look away again as Seamus continued. "I wandered the streets for near six months, lost as a lamb, sleepin' in doorways and gutters, stealin' and lyin' to keep meself in the drink, and I've not the first guess how Icarus were able to recognize me for who I were when I crossed his path. But he did and he took me home and he treated me kind and decent's if I were still human. And when I asked him what all the bleedin' books and charts he had about were for, what he told me were the first thing I'd heard in too long that gave me cause to care if I rose the next day. Whether I survive it or no, this time I'll be able to say a monster was stopped before children died for it."

"That's wonderful and noble and all," Neville protested, "but do you have to do it like this? So much violence, such  _vicious_ attacks! I saw what you did to those people! It's _wrong_ , Seamus! You're declaring yourself judge, jury, and horrific executioner, and how can you say that's okay?"

"Ah, never said that." The smile that spread across the grim, freckled face was chilling. "Ya want the truth, Auror? The raw, ugly truth o' it?  _I like it._ " He paused, the smile widening at Neville's open gasp of shock, then leaned back against the wall, folding his arms casually across his chest. "Hat paused a moment over ya, I know, and you've confessed it were givin' a thought to Hufflepuff, and can't say's I were shocked to hear it, but it took a good long time not puttin' me in Slytherin, and I've never needed to ask meself why, neither. There's somethin' sweet 'bout havin' the power o' a wand or a knife in your hands that can shape the world to your fancy, there is. I may be a bit o' a wee fellow, but oh, Auror, ya don't want to be meetin' me on a dark night if you've done me a wrong."

"You're no better, then!" Neville exclaimed. "Those were  _human beings_ you carved up like so much meat, and that you can sit there and –" he stopped, unable to even find the words to express the horror he felt, and Seamus laughed.

"Ya feckin' hypocrite, Auror! Life ain't more value to ya than to me, ya don't bother that they're dead, ya know they're scum same's I, but just because I'm gettin' a thrill by it and ain't weepin' into me breakfast the next mornin, I'm a monster. How's it a better thing when a man who deserves to die gets what he's got comin' but manages to hurt the one what took him down? Better, ain't it, that the one dolin' out the justice ain't the last victim."

The accusation was as much a challenge, but Neville's head only tilted quizzically. "You're baiting me."

"I ain't –"

"Yes you are. You may have changed a lot, but I still grew up with you for seven years, and a person just can't change  _that_ completely. I know you like a good fight, but what you're claiming now is something really different, not to mention back in second year you told me the Hat considered you for Slytherin because you couldn't care less about authority, which I'm a lot more willing to buy." His eyes narrowed in consideration. "You're not a monster, but you  _want_ me to think you are, and what I don't understand is why."

He received no answer. Instead, Seamus only stared at his hands, his fingers tracing the delicate knotwork of the wand's handle silently, and Neville went on, his voice soft as he realized the truth. "You want to make sure I turn you in at the end of this. It  _has_ hurt you, hasn't it? You think you deserve to go to prison. You  _want_ to go."

"Turn me in or don't," came the cold reply, and then Seamus did look up, and his expression was utterly unreadable. "Bein' the Sluagh ain't what's put blood on me hands, and sendin' me to Azkaban won't be what puts blood on yours. I know what ya did with the RHD, and at the end o' the day, do ya reckon there's anythin' in truth between us but a badge?"

There was no real rebuttal Neville could give to the hard truth of Seamus' accusation, and the rest of their watch passed in heavy, uncomfortable silence. He didn't want to think about it, wished he could just concentrate on the problems of the mission and their own imprisonment, but it wasn't so easy. What had he allowed himself to become? Had he really changed that deeply? If he was completely honest, he didn't know, and that was all the more upsetting, because he didn't really remember.

Oh, he remembered what he had done well enough. With the RHD, with the Aurors, with the D.A. It was before that was vague, and if you couldn't remember where you had started, how could you really know how far you had travelled from that point? The boy he had once been seemed as distant as an old photograph; fuzzy images of a plump, awkward child who laughed and blushed and who worried a great deal more than seemed to make any sense now about things that in hindsight had been nothing at all. The leadership that now came so instinctively hadn't been there at all, he'd been so unsure about everything, whereas now he more often than not acted  _too_  fast, made judgments  _too_  readily. Was he remembering wrong, or were the memories even the same person?

Had the round child with the teddy-bear pajamas become the man who now sat in this chill, damp warehouse somewhere in the bowels of Belfast with scars on his face and body and, as Seamus had pointed out, so much unseen blood on his hands? The leader of an army that was still all too ready to be called to duty, a husband who hardly ever saw his wife, an Auror like his father when he had once struggled just not to shame his father's name?

Had he shamed it now? Oh, not publically, that much was certain. The name of Longbottom was connected now to more medals and adulation and stupid, simpery articles in glossy magazines that kept trying to make him take his shirt off than ever before. To the wizarding world, he was a hero, plain and simple. But had he shamed his father's name in his own heart?

Really, that was the hardest question to answer. Taken one day at a time, one choice at a time, his path had been clear, if not always easy, but where had it lead him one dangerous step after another? If Frank were aware of anything, what would he think of his son now?

 _You know what war was like, father_ , he thought pleadingly.  _You and mother, didn't you ever have to do anything you weren't proud of? Gran only tells me about your successes, your victories, the dangerous people you brought to justice, the lives you saved, but somewhere, sometime, didn't you ever have to do things you were ashamed of to get those victories? Does Gran even know about those times? Does anyone know, or are they locked deep inside somewhere with everything else you once were?  
_

He closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger against the gathering headache. He had so many of those these days, he knew what to do, exactly where and how hard to push to force them back without potions that could dull his wits, and there weren't any answers, not really. Whomever he had become, that was the man he had to face in the mirror now, and it didn't matter how he had gotten there because the past, as always, was carved in unchangeable stone. It was only the future that could be decided, and right now, even that wasn't particularly under his control.

They had to find a way out somehow, try to rescue Ron and Hermione, and they would be lucky – so, so lucky – if Utterson was the last they lost. He didn't even want to think about that part. The pain of the losses taken five years past still hadn't dulled fully, and the survivors had formed a core tighter than they had ever been before, clinging to one another as the only people who truly understood what had happened that year. What had happened that night.

They had supported each other through amputations, recoveries, endless Transfiguration sessions and potion regimens, painful physical therapy and the rebuilding of shattered lives and bodies, as well as the sweeter milestones of engagements and weddings, new jobs, new homes, pregnancies and births. No longer an army now, they were a family closer in many cases by bond than to those they were actually related to by blood, and he couldn't imagine losing more of them now.

But they would. He knew that, and there was no getting around it. Getting out of this with no casualties at all would be more than a miracle, and it was only a question of who. And what to do then. He let out a deep, wavering sigh, his head shaking slowly, not caring if the man who had started all this saw him or not, if he guessed any of his thoughts.

Seamus was right, anyway. It was wrong that they were still be asked to give, and Hannah was right that he had already given too much, and Ginny was right that they would always ask more. The line had to be drawn somewhere, and Neville knew it would have to be soon. Once this was over, if he were again among the survivors, he would have to choose. Continue with the Aurors – and if he did that, he would have to accept it as a career, make the decision to give himself over to it permanently, because he was inches at most from falling too far to ever walk away as it was – or give his apologies to Shacklebolt and try to figure out what was left of the boy and what he wanted to make of the man.

The watch buzzed in his pocket, and Neville startled, pulling it out and staring at the face in shock. It was impossible that the entire shift had passed, but the hands were pointing firmly at three o'clock in the morning, and he pushed it back into place in his jeans as he got to his feet. Seamus had already crossed to wake Ginny, and he picked his way carefully among the makeshift beds, crouching at his wife's side. He paused, staring at her, and a sad smile crossed his face.

He had never actually seen her sleep without him. Oh, he'd seen her dozed off in chairs and on the sofa often enough, but not like this. When they were together, she curled against him, pillowing her head on his shoulder, one hand on his chest. Alone, though, she slept on her stomach, both arms under her head like a little girl, the only similarity being the way she had kicked the blankets off to bare her feet. She could never sleep if her feet were hot. A tiny crease drew a line of worry between her brows, her lips were pursed, and he wondered if she always looked like this on nights he was away. Did she have nightmares about him? How selfish never to have fully considered whether his own silent endurance was the only cost of the choices he'd made.

"Hannah…." He reached down, shaking her shoulder gently, and she rolled over, blinking up at him in a moment's confusion as she smiled lazily.

"Mmmsorry, love, dropped off." She yawned, stretching her arms up over her head as she sat up, then all traces of the languid look fell away instantly as she realized where she was. Her eyes were completely clear and free of sleep as she turned to him, tugging her shirt crisply into place. "My shift, then?"

"Yeah," he nodded, then paused "Mind if I sit up with you a minute?"

"You're supposed to get some rest too," she frowned.

"I will. I just…there's some things I wanted to talk about. Things about us."

A look of uncertainty and a bit of fear flashed through her eyes, but she smiled only a little too tightly. "Of course, Neville. Something bothering you?"

He held his answer until the doors had been checked – still sealed as firmly as ever – and she and Ginny had settled into the watch. They sat down together on the crate, and he leaned in close to keep the conversation between the two of them. Nothing against Ginny, but this was private, and thankfully, she seemed to understand, looking away at the sleeping D.A. in an unspoken agreement to leave them alone.

Neville took a deep breath, taking both Hannah's hands in his. "I'm leaving the Aurors."

"But you made a promise to Kingsley!" she protested instantly. "I don't want you backing out on that just because I threw a tantrum earlier. I really do understand what you need to do."

"It's not what you said…well, not really," he amended. "This hasn't been what I agreed to, and I don't just mean the mess we're in now. It was presented as just helping out a bit, rounding up a few stragglers, but it's been non-stop for two whole years, and it's an ugly, nasty business. Not just Death Eaters, but informants and thieves and Snatchers and black marketers and every other piece of filth that feeds on war. It's hard and brutal and dangerous, and it's really starting to get to me a lot more than I was willing to admit. I shouldn't have been  _able_  to do what I did while I was undercover, I shouldn't have been able to shut out and justify my own conscience that much, and I want out, Hannah. I want out before it's too late."

For a long moment, she was quiet, then she took a deep, steady breath of her own before letting it out in a slow sigh. "I've kept my mouth shut. Didn't want to be nagging or stupidly paranoid, but I've hated this whole thing. They're using you, they –" She cut herself off, then tossed her head, her chin coming up with a challenging gleam in her eyes. "They  _preyed_  on you, Neville. On what kind of person you are. You and Ron and Harry and Tony and Zach and all of you! They took advantage of all the pain you were in, all the friends you lost and they all but blackmailed you that you'd somehow be failing them, that you somehow owed them this, that you'd be letting down their memories if you didn't go doing anything they told you to get rid of every last trace of that war for them; and they wouldn't have to get dirty because you were already covered in it!"

Now Neville was a bit taken aback, and he could feel his face heat as he stared at her incredulously. "How can you say that about Kingsley? That he's used me for a lot more than he ever had planned, sure. Even that he's not gonna let me go easy…he's already been dropping hints he's intending to try and keep me on, but to call him a  _predator_  –"

"Do you really think that was Kingsley's plan?" She said hotly. "He's the Minister of Magic out of nowhere, he's got the entire aftermath of a war dropped in his lap, and if someone suggested re-building the Aurors from the D.A., he'd look at it just as you did, because it wouldn't occur to him that anyone would be thinking of just keeping it all in one tidy package of people who'd already seen the ugliness so no one else had to."

"And what's so wrong with that?" Neville challenged. "You'd have had us leave it to the younger kids? To no one?"

"There were other people outside Hogwarts," Hannah smiled awfully. "You know, the huge crowds that show up whenever they pin things on you that mean dress robes and blushing and squirming. I remember saying we were willing to sacrifice ourselves to get those people to move, but they didn't, and somehow they've twisted it until now you believe that you're bound to always pick up their slack."

"That's why I want out, though," Neville acknowledged. "Seamus said pretty much the same thing, and I guess he's right. I don't owe them any more. I want to talk to Harry and Ron and the others about it too…once this is over, that is."

Hannah nodded her head towards Ginny. "Harry shouldn't be in it either, but he's never known anything else. His whole life since it really mattered at all has been about doing whatever he's told to stop people like that, taking his orders from others instead of deciding anything for himself, feeling like he has to earn every happy moment. For his sake, for Ginny's, leave Harry alone at least…it's so much a part of him now, I don't know if there'd be anything after."

Neville stared at her in something very like awe. "How do you –"

"I'm a bartender," she giggled rather girlishly. "Listening is my specialty." Her fingers traced the smooth line of the scar on his cheek. "But what about you? You're not like him. There's more there. What do you want after we escape – from here, from the Diabhal Dubh, and from the Ministry?"

He reached up, taking her hand in his and kissing the fingertips lightly. "I like helping you with the Cauldron. I love anything to do with plants. I've thought about maybe trying to get certified to teach Herbology, maybe writing a book, maybe starting up an exotic plant emporium in Diagon Alley. But mostly, I guess, I want to just relax. Be your husband, be a dad, even. Maybe it's resting on my laurels, but I think I've earned it."

"More than earned it." A wicked smile glittered her eyes. "You know, if you want me to take care of things with Kingsley, I will."

"I'm perfectly –"

"Oh, I know, but those big, tough types can never handle a weepy witch. He knows we got married, I could go in there and make a proper scene, tell him I'm pregnant, demand he let you go."

She grinned wider now, and he chuckled. "If you did that, we'd have to produce a kid in pretty short order. Say, nine months maximum and hope he wasn't counting too closely."

"And would that –" Hannah leaned forward until her lips were brushing his, her eyes smoldering. "—be such a terrible thing?"

They kissed, and something about it felt better, more free and more right than it had in far, far too long. Even with what they still faced, the cloud of a fight that could never really end except over their own deaths had hung there for as long as they had been together, and it was something new and wonderful to see the edge of sunlit hope begin to break through. He could feel the same relief in her touch, and the kiss grew more passionate, tongues exploring one another's mouths as though it were all completely new, his arms tightening to draw her up onto his lap as her fingers tangled tightly in his hair.

"Uh, Commander, not to bother you, but you're kind of distracting my fellow sentry just a little." Ginny's amused rebuke broke the spell, and they sprang apart, blushing like teenagers.

"Right." Neville cleared his throat, smoothing his hair back into place as he stood. "I should…um…get some sleep, probably."

"Probably," Hannah agreed softly. "I'll let you know if we get through the doors, or if anything happens."

"Okay." He returned her smile, then leaned down briefly to give her a last quick peck on the cheek before turning to go.

"Neville…"

He stopped, looking back at her with a quizzically raised eyebrow. "Yes?"

"If things go...like we were talking about, can I ask you to do one more thing?" There was an odd hesitation to her voice, and he frowned.

"What's that?"

"Will you…" she paused, then met his eyes directly, her own gaze breathtakingly open. "Will you cut your hair?"

The question was completely unexpected, but he was far more surprised at how easily the answer came. "Yeah, I think I will."


	10. Counter Coup

"Okay, guys, we're desperate now. Ginny's the only one who's made any progress at all, and she's only gotten about three inches towards China." Neville nodded towards the young witch in the corner with a grim smile, and she returned it with a grimace of her own, shoving the sweat-soaked strands of red hair back from her forehead.

She had managed to locate a cracked portion of concrete in one corner of the floor and attacked it mercilessly with the prybar despite half a dozen people pointing out the futility of her actions. It was distressingly obvious after two hours hard work why the spells that locked them in were allowing her to make her attempt. Even with help from Neville and several of the other wizards, they had indeed only made it about three inches into the stubborn surface, and the idea of tunneling out had been abandoned along with all of the other things they had tried.

He looked around the tense faces and sighed, feeling the weight of command on him again as it hadn't been since before the Battle of Hogwarts itself. "Turn out your pockets, everybody. Let's see what we've got."

"I don't –" Hannah began, then cut herself off, shaking her head as she began to reach into the pockets of her robes. "If any of us were carrying a Portable Portal, love, don't you think they'd have mentioned it by now?"

"I know," Neville agreed, "but maybe there's something that's been overlooked, or maybe if we can all brainstorm together…or maybe there's something we could build, something…." He shrugged. "Look, it's all I've got right now. I'm fresh out of ideas. I'm just hoping that someone will be inspired by  _anything_. Me, you,  _anybody._ "

"I wish George were here." Ginny dropped a handful of coins, a lipstick, a photograph of Harry, her Auror badge, a small pocketknife, and – much to the embarrassment of Neville and most of the other wizards – a few rather personal witch's items onto the growing pile. "He's a genius at making things, always has been. I bet he could look at what we've got and put together an arsenal."

"If it's an arsenal ya want,  _Potter_ ," Seamus said, emphasizing her married name with a deliberate glower, "I've got that without needin' to build anythin'." He unzipped his jacket, his face impassive and his manner as casual as if he were unloading nothing more remarkable than the rest of their common pocket detritus as he placed the two handguns, the knife, and several fistfuls of ammunition on the heap. "There's more in me bag's well. Two more guns, shoulder holster, ankle holster, some rope, three solid in Muggle cash, couple other bits n' bobs, and enough ammo to take out half the British army."

Zacharias let out a low whistle, his eyes huge. "That is  _so_  illegal."

"Which is the least of our problems right now," Neville cut in quickly. He picked up one of the small, gleaming bullets, rolling it between his fingers as he studied it. "These have explosives in them, right?"

"Aye," Seamus nodded. "Not so much in each, but I reckon I see where you're goin', Auror."

"NO." Ginny had planted both hands on her hips, shaking her head with a stonily stubborn expression that caused her to bear a remarkable resemblance to her mother. "If there's one thing I learned growing up with the twins, it's that you do  _not_ mess around lightly with things that go boom. We already know we can't get to St. Mungo's, and I for one do not want to push Demmy that far."

"I second, third, and fourth that if I can," Demelza said quickly. "If you boys blow yourselves to kingdom come, you're going to be seriously out of luck. I'm only halfway through my courses and all I have is a wand. That's not going to help if you spread yourselves all over the floor."

"Well we've got to do  _something!_ " Jimmy threw down the contents of his own pockets in a huff. "Empty crisp packet, two Galleons six and ten, and my watch. Best thing I've seen so far is definitely Finnigan the walking munitions plant. I say we stick it all together, shove it against the hinges of the weakest door, and find a way to set it off. Maybe _Reducto_  doesn't work, but that looks like it could be a heck of a Muggle bang!"

But Neville wasn't listening. He was staring at a silver device no larger than a deck of playing cards that Zacharias had tossed down. It looked familiar, very familiar, and he picked it up, startling himself only slightly as he found the little latch and the door fell open, lighting up the panel of numbered buttons within. "This…."

Zacharias swore, turning away from them to slam both hands and, quickly thereafter, his forehead into the nearest wall. "I  _completely_ …I  _never_  use that thing!"

"You've got a mobile!" Ginny's expression was radiant. "We can ring for help! Does it have a charge, Neville?"

"Uh…" he stared at the small, shining screen in complete ignorance, but she snatched it out of his hand before he could even figure out how he was supposed to tell, or, for that matter, what he was looking for.

"It's for my in-laws," Zacharias explained. "After Cathy remarried, well, it's a bit conspicuous to send owls into a Muggle neighborhood to keep them up on the kids or get a sitter, but I've only actually used it myself a few times. Meg's the one –"

"One bar.  _Really_  low battery. We're gonna be cutting this very, very close," Ginny scowled. "Probably only get one chance, iffy on long-distance. Who do we ring?"

"Auror Department, Muggle police, whatever kind of cops we can get out here." Rose's reply came without a moment's hesitation. "We need firepower that can break us out of here."

"No." Neville stared levelly at Seamus as he spoke, deliberately never breaking eye contact with his former Lieutenant. "We've got a man here who's wanted on both sides of the Statute, and he's the only chance we have with Utterson dead. We might as well not get out at all as get out if it's just to watch him carted off."

The freckled hands balled into fists at Seamus' sides. "They'd have a hard time cartin' me anywhere, Auror. I don't need your protection."

"Maybe not," he replied quietly, "but you've earned my loyalty."

No one spoke for a moment, then Jimmy raised his hand. "What about Harry? He'd keep his mouth shut."

"Harry doesn't have a mobile," Ginny pointed out. "It would have to be someone we can ring on the Muggle system."

"And while Cathy and Gary might love to help," Zacharias said with a good-natured smile, "I've three times had to go let that man out of his own garage with magic after he's locked himself in, so I don't see him pulling some mad brilliant escape plan for us."

"Same here," Demelza sighed. "Everyone I know in the Muggle world, even if I could remember their numbers off the top of my head, they'd not be any help unless it were just to do what we don't want, which is get the police."

Ricky King kicked the corner of the pile with a harsh oath, sending coins spinning across the floor in a thin, ringing chime that was disturbingly sweet-sounding in their hated situation. "So now we've got a way to contact the outside and no one to effin' contact! It's past noon! I'm starving, Ron and Hermione are the main event of some maniac's party in  _hours_ now, and we're sitting around bleating at each other like a bunch of stupid sheep!"

"Never heard of sheep that were anythin' but stupid, meself," Seamus said dryly. "And I know if there were, Macmillan would've mentioned it. Bit touchy on the subject, he were. Rather's if he were compensatin' for somethin', I always thought."

"Lucky for you he's dead," Felton chuckled. "I think we'd be peeling you off the walls for that."

"Ah, but we wouldn't." A grin so sweet, so cheeky, so  _familiar_  that it hurt to see passed over the chiseled, tattooed features. "I were always a damned sight faster than he, and don't ya know that nature's the wiser on that. May give a bit o' a lad like meself a quick tongue, but she gave me quicker feet to go with."

"We could order take-away," Hannah offered with a faint smile, picking up a worn and tightly folded menu from the pile. "Solve one of your problems, Ricky, and you never know, maybe the Diabhal Dubh wouldn't have expected that and the delivery boy can just waltz right in. I wonder if –" she turned the menu, squinting at the creased and faded letters. "— _Yum Dim Sum_ takes wizarding money?"

"Give that here!" Neville grabbed the menu out of his wife's hands so fiercely that she yelped, his mouth suddenly dry as he looked at the blurry numbers scrawled across the column of vegetarian entrée specials.

_Kevins mobel 28-9027-9160_

He swallowed hard, his mind spinning over the implications of the simple series of numbers Sean had scribbled weeks ago before taking him to see his new flatmate for the first time. His eyes raised, meeting those of the only man he knew would understand. "He's RHD."

"Not them!" Seamus shook his head harshly, crossing his arms, but Neville drew a deep breath, holding up the menu.

"They're here. They're not with the authorities. If anyone can break into a warehouse…and besides, they owe me for Sean."

"They owe who ya were passin' yourself as!" Seamus retorted. "Ya think they won't notice ya look just a mite different without the Polyjuice? Or've ya got a stash of it up your sleeve, seein's how ya have a fondness lately for impersonatin' the dead?" There was a cutting iciness to the last, and Neville winced.

"It's worth trying to explain," he pressed. "They're the best hope we've got at the moment, and Ricky's right, we don't have time to keep fishing around for more. I'm going to do it."

An uncomfortable silence hung in the cavernous space for almost a minute, the rest of the D.A. staring at the two men in awareness that there was something very significant here that they were all missing, but no one quite willing to ask what it was. At last, Ginny held out the phone. "Zach, you dial. I don't want to hit the wrong button."

Zacharias took it, licking his lips nervously as he crossed to stand next to Neville, looking over his fellow Auror's shoulder to read the numbers as he entered them into the phone and then pressed the green button in the corner of the panel. "There. It's ringing at least…now let's just hope someone answers."

Neville held the phone to his ear as he had seen Muggles do, listening to the oddly tinny chiming noise repeat, pause, and repeat again. Then there was a click, a moment's hum, and he heard a man's voice as if from the end of a long, echoing tube. "Oi?"

"Kevin?" he asked hesitantly.

"Who's this?" the young gang member's tone became instantly suspicious. "Howdja get me number?"

"It's Jackie, Kevin," Neville replied. "I'm in –"

"JACKIE!!" The shout came through so loudly that he had to hold the phone almost a foot from his head, wincing. There was a commotion in the background, a scuffle, then Kevin's voice returned. "Christ, mate, we thought ya'd been laid to daisies at the pier with Billy, true 'nuff! Where've ya been, ya feckin' shitehawk?!"

The phone beeped at him, and Ginny made urgent motions at an invisible watch, signaling frantically that he was running out of time. "Long story," he said quickly, "I'll tell you everything I can, but I don't have much time. Look, I'm trapped in a warehouse on Duncrue and Milewater with a bunch of other people – Chopsticks, it's complicated – but I _need_ your help! You've got to get us out of here!"

There was another muffled conversation, and the suspicious air had resumed. "Why should I –?"

"Because I saved Sean's life while you were standing there with your thumbs up your arse screaming like a fucking useless piece of gee and watching him drain his drinks out on that sidewalk!" Neville snapped. "You  _owe_ me, and I'm calling it in. You can ask questions when I'm on the other side of this door to answer them."

Once again the phone beeped, louder this time, and Neville held his breath, waiting what seemed like forever for the answer. At last it came. "Duncrue and Milewater?"

He let out a sigh of relief so deep it was nearly a sob. "Yes! And please hurry! We're running out of time!"

This time there was no hesitation. "Be there in half an hour at the tops."

"Thank – " but he didn't get to finish. There was a final beep, and the little screen went black, no amount of button-pushing able to revive the faint green glow.

Every set of eyes was on him, their gazes leaden with questions, but it was a single pair of vivid blue that weighed heaviest. "Well now," Seamus said, and although he spoke barely above a whisper, it carried across the stillness obscenely loudly. "You've chosen a pricy piper, Auror. I 'spose we'll all be seein' now if ya can dance."

OOO

The wait was only twenty-one minutes by his watch, but it seemed far longer. Neville had tried to explain things to the D.A., telling them that he had been undercover with a Muggle gang for several weeks while trying to find Seamus, but he knew that the truth of what he had done was something that only his former quarry understood, if anyone. The rest took it so much in stride that it was disconcerting, as if it had been something okay, anything but the twisted travesty of policework it had become.

At last the knock came, booming hollow against the wide steel panels of the bay doors, and Neville jumped as Kevin's voice rang out. "Jackie! Ya in there, mate?"

"Yes!" He ran to the door, pressing his hands against it as if he could see the other man through the rusted partition. "There's magic sealing us in…we don't know what it's going to do on your side. Be careful, whatever you do might backfire!"

"Magic? Ya run up against the Sluagh, didja, Jackie?"

Seamus gave a derisive snort, and Neville glanced at him with a wry smile. "Not exactly, but I'll tell you once we're not screaming through a door…" he hesitated, then took a deep breath. "But there's something else I've got to tell you."

"If ya've slept with me sister, mate, I hate to be tellin' ya that ain't no exclusive club ya joined…proper slag, the dear lass. Can't keep her knickers on for shite."

Neville chuckled tensely, then shook his head, although he knew the gesture couldn't be seen. "No…but you're…well, you're gonna be kind of surprised when you see me."

There was a pause, then the young man's voice returned with a tone of deep sympathy. "If ya've been hidin' from us 'cause ya got yourself cut up some, we ain't gonna be carin', Jackie. 'Tweren't never with ya for your pretty face, we weren't."

"Not cut up, but when I was with you...I, uh, that wasn't exactly my face."

Another pause, then Kevin swore. "Whose feckin' face was it?!"

"It was – that doesn't matter really – it was a kind of magic disguise. I told you that the Sluagh and I used to be friends, and I didn't want to be recognized if we ran up against him. But it's still me, Kev. I look really different now; I've got dark hair, I'm not quite as built, and I've got some fairly wicked scars on my face, but it's still me." Neville held his breath, waiting for the reaction, but to his relief, Kevin didn't seem at all put out.

"Oh, all right then. Thanks for the warnin', though, we don't take none kindly to strangers, we don't." He could hear a muffled conversation through the door, then there was a sharp rap. "Now clear yourself, Jackie, lad, we're gonna be re-arrangin' the architecture a touch."

Neville wasn't entirely sure what that would entail, but the warning wasn't something he took lightly. He stepped away from the door immediately, turning to the rest of the D.A. and waving his arms to motion them back. "Take cover, guys. This might be messy."

The D.A. scattered without argument, taking shelter behind cement columns and tall piles of crates on the farthest side of the warehouse, and he heeded his own advice as well, crouching next to his wife as he took her hand, squeezing it tightly. "They're gonna get us out, love. It'll all be okay."

She did not look convinced, her brows drawn so tightly that they almost met over her small, upturned nose. "I don't like this, Neville. I  _really_ don't like you getting back in with these people, and I've got a seriously bad feeling about it."

"I'm not getting back in with them," he protested with more confidence than he really felt. "I've just called in a favor. It's not as if we had a lot of choices, and they owed me."

"And now you owe them," she pointed out darkly. "Those kind of people never settle scores. They just keep passing back and forth who owes who. They're going to expect you to go back with them now, or didn't you think about that?"

"I did," he admitted, "but we're just going to have to deal with that after we've rescued Ron and Hermione.  _Obliviate_  is a heck of a useful spell, you know."

"But even that has its limits." She shook her head. "You know the rules, and I don't think you've just chucked them all that completely, especially when you know there's basic ethics behind that one. You can't Obliviate a Muggle to any degree that would cause significant disruption to their minds or lives, and that means that you can't just erase weeks of time from Merlin knows how many people."

"It doesn't have to be weeks," he argued, "I could just let them keep thinking I –"

He had no chance to finish as a terrible creaking and roaring filled the warehouse, drowning out his words and making him clap his hands against the sides of his head. There had already been a lot of clattering, metallic commotion, but he had assumed that to simply be the men outside testing for themselves that everything was indeed securely locked, but now he wasn't so sure.

The roar grew louder, unquestionably an engine, and the spells on their prison began to respond against whatever was being done outside. A crackling lightning storm of energy enveloped the wall, snapping and hissing, and the entire surface shimmered as if under a heat wave. The shining bursts lashed out like maddened serpents, and as one of the crates above their head blew apart in a cloud of splintered wood, Neville grabbed Hannah and shoved her to the floor, wrapping his body around her protectively as he thrust out with his wand. " _Protego!"_

Another crate exploded, not empty this time, and he was grateful that his own Shield Charm held under the barrage of shattered dishes that could have sliced into flesh as easily as razor blades. Even still, he did not uncurl himself, preferring to trust a simple physical shield to magic as the world seemed to come to pieces around them. He could hear shouts, oaths, more clattering from outside, the gunning of the engine grew to a shrieking crescendo of screaming metal, then everything exploded in a blaze of light and a tremendous bang. The blast drove him down hard onto Hannah, and he felt more than heard her cry out.

Then it had passed, and silence hung as strange and heavy as the dust that thickened the air into an impenetrable, choking cloud. Neville rolled to the side quickly, shaking his head to try and dispel the ringing in his ears, the spots wavering in his vision as Hannah pushed herself to hands and knees, coughing harshly but thankfully unharmed.

The door was gone.

In its place, a large hole gaped jaggedly in the wall, and outside, through the fading dust, he could just make out a handful of figures gathered around a blocky, military-looking vehicle, the door unbelievably chained and dragging behind it in the narrow alley. Cautiously, his wand held tightly in his hand, Neville started forward, ready to hit an invisible, magical barrier in the apparently empty space, ready for the brutal impact of a spell to catch him, fling him back, dash the hesitantly growing hope….

But he stepped through. Out of the warehouse, into the alley, into air that was hazy and dusty and filthy and  _free._ He spun, letting out a roar of relief and triumph as he called out to his comrades still inside. "WE'RE OUT!!"

Somewhere inside, he could hear Ginny's distinctive shriek of exuberance, her red hair instantly visible as she sprang out from behind a column, sprinting towards the entrance. "Come on!" she shouted. "Before this place changes its mind!"

Over a dozen witches and wizards materialized through the clearing dust; running, stumbling, grabbing up bags and robes and jackets as they burst through to freedom. Out in the alley, Kevin had climbed from the driver's seat of the vehicle, only to stop in shock in a tight cluster with a half-dozen other members of his gang as they stared bemusedly at what they had released.

Neville turned again, realizing that at the moment their rescuers needed his attention more than the D.A. themselves, but as he started towards them, they seemed to come to an abrupt understanding of the situation as guns and knives materialized as if by magic, every one of them leveled directly at him. Immediately, he raised both hands high, dropping his wand to leave his palms open and harmless. "It's me!" he shouted. "I told you, I look different now! But it's still –"

They weren't aiming at him. They were aiming  _behind_ him. "Kevin Dooley. Ain't it a pleasure, now."

The sound of Seamus' voice carried a physical chill that slithered through Neville's stomach, and he knew what he would see even before he looked over his shoulder. Clearly revealed by the all-but-vanished dust cloud, he was standing steadily just beyond the yawning opening where the door had once been; a pistol unwaveringly level in his hands as he sighted calmly down the dark barrel.

"Seamus, NO!" Neville whirled, planting himself firmly in what he prayed would please, please not wind up the line of fire. "What are you  _doing?!"_

"Takin' care o' unfinished business."

"So that's your real name, is it?" Kevin didn't seem at all frightened, his own weapon aimed just as firmly, his dark eyes never leaving Seamus' even as he directed his next words to Neville. "Ya ought know, Jackie, that you're keepin' company with the very lad ya've been huntin'. Or do ya know that? Were ya meanin' to try and drop me in his lap all along, 'cause I don't think I'm too fond o' that possibility."

Neville blinked, horrified. "You two  _know_ each other?"

"Oh, aye." Kevin replied casually, reaching up with one hand to pull aside the collar of his t-shirt, the pistol still extended in the other as he revealed a thin, livid scar at the base of his throat. "I reckon I'm the reason he started freezin' his toys before he got to carvin' them up. Ya learn your lesson well enough when one o' them gets ya where the good Lord made it hurt, ya do."

"True enough I learn, Kevin me lamb," Seamus sneered. "And one o' the things I've learned is to clean up after meself. So if ya don't mind, I'll not be comin' all that close this time."

"You'll not be doing  _anything!"_ Neville said fiercely. " _Either_ of you!" He extended both arms, the gesture futile, he knew, but his wand was still on the ground, and he couldn't take his eyes off the two men long enough to grab it, no matter how much he would give for a Shield Charm at the moment. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the rest of the D.A. and the RHD suspended in mutual tension as they watched the confrontation, every hand tight on their own weapons, the threat of violence at any moment strung along every taut nerve and white knuckle.

His own heart was pounding, and he swallowed hard, mustering every trace of authority he had ever been capable of. "Look, I don't care what happened before. We. Do. Not. Have. Time. Now. After this is all over, if you two want to have whatever kind of duel you want, you're frankly both out of your minds and both welcome to blow each other halfway across Ireland if that's what you're so determined to do. But I did  _not_ deliver anyone to anyone."

He turned his attention to Kevin completely now, meeting the other man's eyes with absolute sincerity. "Yes, I know now that he's the Sluagh, but that does not mean I approve at all of what he was doing, and he knows that. We're working together because there's a bigger enemy, and that goes for you to. It's a wizard, but he's gone rogue, and he's out to drive wizards and Mu – non-magical people into outright war. These other people are members of an army that stopped another dark wizard five years ago, and he locked us in here because he knows we can stop him now."

"Sorry, Jackie, darlin'," Kevin said caustically, "but that reeks o' bullshite to me."

"It's not." Neville's breath caught as Hannah stepped forward, standing beside her husband with her own wand tucked into her belt, her pretty face showing no fear. "I'm his wife." She held up her hand, showing off the simple gold band that gleamed there, "he tried to protect me from everything he was doing with your people, but he brought me in now because this is desperate. This isn't just about our world, this is yours too, and I don't even know who you are. I just know that you got us out and I, for one, am grateful."

Kevin seemed surprised for a moment, then grinned salaciously. "Sweet bird ya got there, Jackie. Did he tell ya 'bout the slit he knocked back at the club, dearie?"

Hannah didn't flinch, just smiled sweetly. "I think I get the gist of that, sir, and with all due respect to the very nasty thing you've got pointed at us right now, fuck you. I trust my husband, and I think that you and Seamus are both being complete jackasses at the moment."

The hand holding the gun tensed, the cords in Kevin' neck flexed into a horrible split-second of visibility, and Neville held his breath, but to his disbelief, Hannah continued unfazed. "Like he said, you can do whatever you want later, but we still need you right now."

Neville frowned, trying to catch her eye, suddenly unsure of where she was going, but just as she had said she trusted him in the face of Kevin's accusation, he had no choice but to trust her now. Behind them, Seamus, however, did not seem so inclined. "I dunno, Hannah," he said, "I think they've outlived their welcome, meself."

Her green eyes blazed, and now she did snatch the wand from her belt, brandishing it at him. "You said yourself the Diabhal Dubh has seventy at his command. We've got less than twenty. I may not know everything that's going on, but I don't need to. The way I see it, you've gotten us in some serious hot water with these people, and we're going to have to add them to our list of enemies unless we add them to our list of friends."

Kevin let out a harsh snort of laughter. "Ya tryin' to propose some kind o' alliance, ya feckin' cunt?"

"Don't you  _dare_ call her that!" Neville snapped.

"I'll call her what I –"

"No you won't." The distraction had been enough. The D.A. had made their move. As if she had Apparated, Ginny appeared at Kevin's side, her wand tight at his throat as the other members of the RHD found themselves likewise held hostage, and he almost smiled as he saw both Zacharias Smith and Felton Summerby covering Seamus as Rose slipped the gun from his hands. Ginny's own full lips curved into a satisfied smirk, and she tightened the wand in firmly. "That's more than enough posturing, all of you."

"Ya feckin' traitor!" Kevin hissed, glaring at Neville. "You'll pay for this, oh, Jackie, you'll pay dearer than –"

"This entire country is going to pay if we don't do something." Ginny retorted. "This isn't about your pride, this isn't about your stupid feuds, and Hannah is absolutely right. We're the best hope there is right now, but it's no hope at all, because there just aren't enough of us, and we're going up against both wizards and your kind. It's a nasty situation, and there are only two choices right now, so I suggest you listen closely – and Seamus, this goes for you too."

Neville held his breath, still caught in the no-mans land between them, all too aware that the danger had not passed in the slightest, listening as raptly as the two men to whom Ginny was extending the choice he could only guess at. And the guess was the most terrifying possibility of all.

"Option one," she said evenly. "We stun and bind you and leave you all here for either the police to find or to just blow each other to hell when you wake up, and the rest of us go it alone. If it goes that way, then I'll be blunt, we probably all wind up dead, and the Diabhal Dubh –" she paused at Kevin's reaction, one ginger brow raising curiously. "Oh, you've heard of him, then? So you know that's not a really great option. Which brings us to option two: we all work together…our people, your people, and anyone else we can get ahold of, because we cannot afford to be picky right now about what side anyone's supposed to be on. It's the Diabhal Dubh and everyone else right now, and anything else is going to be really irrelevant really soon if we don't take care of that first."

There was a long, breathless pause, then Zacharias pushed his wand hard against Seamus' throat, forcing his chin up to bring the furious blue gaze to meet that of the taller Auror. "So, Finnigan, you just love to jump to the front so much, why don't you go first? Tell us how this is going to go."

Seamus' mouth twisted bitterly, but what his response would have been, they never knew. One after the other, the noise so sharp and rapid that Neville thought at first that someone had opened fire on them, a dozen huge, white shapes appeared in the alley. They seemed massive, hulking, inhuman, then almost the instant they had solidified, they split apart, revealing themselves to be over twice as many in number but indeed human, at least marginally.

The figures all seemed to be men, height and build spanning a wide range and yet still utterly uniform in white robes bordered in green and gold knotwork and ferocious, stylized monsters, their faces hidden behind the same richly worked silver half-masks worn by the wizard Neville knew had to be their leader. There was no sign of the Diabhal Dubh himself, but it didn't matter in the slightest as wands and guns alike were brought to bear on those already gathered in the alley.

No one moved. No one breathed. The entire thing was a single moment of completely suspended surreal disbelief, the newcomers clearly confused by what they had arrived in the middle of. It was a complete if unwitting stalemate, and for half a heartbeat, it almost seemed as though the white-robed strangers were going to simply apologize for the intrusion and leave. Even the lingering dust in the air seemed to hover uncertainly.

Then someone – after it was all over, no one could even remember who – sneezed.

Four years, three hundred and sixty-four days, ten hours, and twenty-three minutes before, a spring night had torn apart with the same abruptness and ferocity as seized the narrow space between the graffiti-streaked cinderblock, and in that instant, the differences of time and space ceased to matter. Neville dove, snatching up his wand as bullets and spells alike snapped and whistled past his head, and he didn't even have time to wonder if their rescuers had become allies or enemies.

It was combat again, raw and hot and instinctive, and Neville felt only a single instant's fear as he realized that he was back to back with Hannah, their wands blurring and flashing as they dueled. He could hear the bark and roar of guns on all sides among the more familiar bangs and cracks of spellwork, but now there were screams as well. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Zacharias go down, blood exploding from his shoulder in a fierce scarlet gush, almost at the same instant his own brilliant jet of crimson light dropped another white-robed attacker to the ground to be shuddered and torn by a half-dozen bullets from  _somewhere_.

Hannah cried out behind him, and although he knew he shouldn't allow his attention to falter, he turned, freezing involuntarily in horror as he saw her. She had dropped her wand, but it still clung to her fingers, because they had stopped being fingers at all. Vines had burst from her fingertips, writhed beneath her skin, protruded from her gaping, soundless mouth, even pushed their thin tendrils hideously from the corners of her eyes.

Something grazed his arm – burning, drawing blood – and he wheeled, roaring out the pain and shock and rage in a Killing Curse stronger than he had imagined himself still capable of that did not merely fell another of their attackers, but blew him fully off his feet and into the far wall in an impact that would have been fatal in itself. All around him, he could see now that the fight was becoming more and more one-sided, too many familiar bodies crumpled, staggering, still.

To his relief, he could see that the RHD had in fact chosen – if you could call it a choice at all – to take them up on the proposed alliance, and they were crouched behind the now twisted and riddled vehicle, blasting away with their own weapons with grim determination. Incredibly, Seamus was among them, and Neville realized that he had cast a Shield Charm over their makeshift bunker as he saw several shots ricochet off the invisible barrier. Yet it was clearly not impenetrable to all assault...at least two men's bodies sent trails of blood between the tires.

At first he thought the sound was someone screaming through a throat mangled by a curse or hex, but then it grew louder, blaring wildly now, and several of the combatants froze, looking suddenly as if they were the ones now on the defensive even as the battle had turned to their favor. Neville pressed forward, taking advantage of the distraction to take down two more of them, not caring what the noise was. If it was enough to stop them even for a moment, it could only be a good thing.

The wailing changed to a yelping noise, eerie and unnatural, and Neville recognized it as a Muggle siren at the same time their attackers came to a decision with a unity that was frightening for its complete lack of words or any visible signals. Were they using group Legilimency of some kind? Had they changed their senses to hear like animals on frequencies normal humans couldn't? There had to be something, because it was far too smooth as they drew in tightly in only seconds, abandoning all but a purely defensive fight as they knotted again into their little clusters and Apparated away.

There was the sound of tires and engines under the sirens that had become deafening now, the Muggle authorities were only seconds away, and Neville made his choice. For a moment, his eyes caught with his old Lieutenant's, and it was all there again, every fiber of the bond that they had forged in years of friendship and months of training communicating what needed to be done between them as if nothing at all had ever changed. Seamus grabbed Kevin in a bear hug, pinning the other man's hands tightly to his sides. "Emain Macha?"

Neville shook his head, scooping Hannah up into his arms and forcing himself to ignore how terribly  _wrong_  she felt. "Cruachain."

Seamus nodded, twisted, and he was gone, taking the gang leader with him in a sharp crack of his own. Even as he did, Neville had already turned to the others. "To me! No one behind!"

No more was needed, he knew. They would follow him, taking the wounded, the RHD who were willing, and even – oh, please, let there not be too many – the dead side-along to meet him at the discarded possibility for their enemy's stronghold. As for the RHD who weren't willing…well, trying to explain the door, the bodies, and the chaos would just be their problem.

He had tried to hedge their bets further by taking the only location in the Republic, but he could only hope that Utterson had been right, both that it was suitably symbolic and secluded and that the Diabhal Dubh wouldn't have chosen it as his final selection. Their enemy might not hopefully think to look for them in one of his own sacred groves, but if they landed directly in his lap, it would all be a moot point very quickly.

Clutching Hannah tightly to his chest, he turned on the spot, the flare of spinning, flashing lights as the police arrived in the alley the last thing he saw before the crushing darkness of Apparition closed around him. He had no idea where he was going, nothing but a name he didn't even know if he was pronouncing right and the image of a map, but if Determination could ever be substituted for Desperation, he knew he was about to find out.


	11. Baser Instincts

"The feck are we?! The feck was all that about?! That was the weirdest feckin –"

Kevin was on him the moment he reappeared, his hands gripping Neville's shoulders tightly, his face a twisted mask of rage and confusion only inches away. Behind him, he could see Seamus on the ground, shaking his head dazedly and clutching at an obviously-broken nose that was gushing blood, but he didn't care. His hands were full, but he slammed his head forward, seeing stars briefly as his forehead smashed into Kevin's with a vicious crack, knocking the other man to the ground.

He didn't have time for the Muggle leader now. Didn't have time for him, for the staccato cracks of his comrades appearing around him, for the cries and moans of the wounded, for counting the dead, even to assess for himself where they were or if anyone else had followed them there. There was only one thing that mattered, and as he knelt, laying his wife on the ground as gently as he could, that one thing consumed him in a horror and grief deeper and colder than anything he had ever felt in twenty-two years that had already held more pain than he would have imagined possible.

The vines had overtaken her almost completely now. Writhing like malformed snakes, they knotted over and within her body in a hideous cage, transforming her into a wicker mockery of a woman. He could no longer see her face at all, but her eyes gleamed out from between the knotted stems, wide and staring and too obviously blank. Carefully, his hands shaking, he brushed his fingers over them, his throat so tight that it was almost impossible to breathe, much less speak, and the words were a broken-glass whisper. "Hannah…love…oh, Merlin, can you hear me?  _Please,_ Hannah…move, blink, say something… _anything,_ baby…."

Nothing. Nothing at all, only the continued creep and slither of the things that were in her, around her, choking and smothering and too, too clearly killing. Desperately, he jabbed at them with his wand, forcing the smooth cherry beneath the vines as deeply as he could. " _Evanesco! Vintasmortum! Relashio! Avada Herbacium! Eximo! Libracorpus! Finite Incantatum! GODDAMMIT, LET HER GO!"_

" _Scaoileadh Saor!"_ Seamus had appeared by his side, kneeling across from him over Hannah's body, his own wand now joined in the efforts to free her as droplets of red scattered to mingle with the clear, dark circles of Neville's own tears. _"Teigh As Radharc!"_ The vines shuddered, twitched, and for a moment, it seemed as though something might be happening, then they continued their merciless entanglement as strongly as ever.

Neville looked up into his friend's eyes pleadingly. "Nothing's working! What the hell kind of magic  _is_ –"

" _His_ magic," Seamus replied bitterly. "Older magic than I know – oh,  _feck_ I wish Utterson – but this is the deep business, don't even have no spells, most o' it."

Deep magic. The oldest magic.

Unbidden but as clear as if it were all happening again, the memory came to him of another young man crouched at his wife's side, of a sacrifice so raw and powerful that it had overcome the Killing Curse itself. A thick, keening sob seemed to tear his chest apart as he gripped Hannah's brittle, engloved hands in his. "I'm sorry…I'm so sorry…I _can't_."

It wasn't fair. He would do it. Oh, he would do it in an instant, give his life for hers, but he couldn't. It wouldn't just be his own life, there were too many others hanging on him now, and never before had the burden of command been so crushingly heavy. He could feel himself begin to weep, but the rasping breaths were too agonizing to truly be sobs, and the vines pulled her hand from his grasp as her arm stiffened further, the few glimpses of skin beneath now lifelessly ashen.

Neville curled down into a tight ball of grief, his hands fisting in his hair, tearing at it, welcoming the physical pain that was so much the thinnest part of what he felt. That he could lose her now, that he could have her taken from him so easily, so cruelly, while he was helpless to do anything at all to save her, his own magic nothing against these alien forces…

His fingernails tore into the raised scars on his palms, and it didn't really even hurt, but the feeling of the raised flesh kindled something else, a vague memory that surged at once into a sudden, impossible hope. Once he had called on that magic himself, hadn't he? The kind more primal than wands or incantation, and if that was magic that could propel things to grow….

Neville's hands tightened down further now, grating across his own palms and deliberately tearing the flesh open to bleed anew before he gripped the thickest of the vines that he could find, the ones wrapped like a woody garrote around her slender throat. His eyes closed, and he drew down into himself, reaching, searching for the core of everything he was as a wizard.

There it was again, that spark in the darkness, but this time, as he pulled upon it, it was not in a youth's fear, but a man's desperation. It began to grow, to build, not shimmering gold in his mind's eye, instead a glowing, red-hot ember, and he knew without understanding how that this time the force must be destructive to tear apart what was growing parasitically on the woman he loved.

He fed it, stoked it, nourished it on all the hate and anger and horrors that he had spent so long trying to bury. No longer. Now he broke open those wounds as well, bleeding out the memories into the naked emotion they held. His parents' screams. A thin, white wrist that ended in nothing. Black eyes over a hooked nose watching a young man twist under a monster's whims. Shrill laughter tearing a girl's face to pieces. A yellow talon filthy against a pale cheek. Chunks of brain on flowered wallpaper.

And other things, other memories that he had never allowed himself to know held just as much rage within them. Harry's eyes, lost and confused as he admitted there was no plan. Dumbledore serene in canvas as he smiled in authoritative smugness at the bloody, exhausted youth who dared question his great plans. Tony's tight smile as he said they were going to adopt because Li could never have children. The way Ron could never raise his right arm all the way. Taking Zach from the birth of his first child to follow up a false lead on Amycus. Malfoy shaking hands with a wizard in purple robes after he had walked free from the Wizengamot.

It hurt, and he knew now why he had never allowed those things to run free before. Every vein and sinew burned like the Cruciatus, and from somewhere far away, very far away, he could hear himself screaming as the ember's glow became a Fiendfyre inferno.

It was blinding, scorching, terrible, forcing his hands so tight that he could distantly feel the bones in his fingers snap. His head wrenched back, his spine arching, and he didn't know if anyone else could hear the scream or if it was all inside his head as his world shredded itself so violently that if it didn't go somewhere, if it didn't get out, it was going to kill him.

He shoved.

Forced it all from him in a volcanic burst, pushing it down through his bleeding, broken hands and out into the vines, pitting everything he had ever endured against what would be at last too much to bear up under. Crackling, roaring, snapping wildly, it surged down the vines like venom through veins, but he couldn't tell what, if anything was happening. It was all so much – too much – and he could feel his own sense of self and sanity slipping away, but he couldn't grab for it, couldn't push past the monster he had unleashed in himself.

Neville's vision was nothing but red, the scarlet of blood and flame and agony itself, but black cracks had begun to spiderweb across it all. Now they spread, thickened, deepened into gaping crevasses of nothing that yawned down into the depths of the mindscape that had become his world. Then he broke free from the last of what had been tethering him to reality, and the chasms welcomed him as he fell forward and down into nothing.

OOO

"Neville? C'mon, mate, you okay?" The jolting tingle of Ennervation was all too familiar a sensation, and he recognized it even before the voice, his eyes blinking open as he shook his head, trying to recover his bearings. He remembered pain – his whole body was still sore, aching terribly – and something else, something awful….

He was on his back, outside, a man's head and shoulders silhouetted against the glaringly bright blue sky above him, but he could still clearly distinguish a halo of almost glowing red hair, and he frowned in confusion. "Ron?"

"Not the brother I'm used to getting mistaken for, but I'll forgive you this time." A hand reached down, taking him by the elbow and pulling him up to a sitting position, and now he recognized the freckled face and cheeky grin, although it only deepened his bafflement.

" _George?"_

"Got it in two, at least – watch the hands, there." George's words of caution came too late, and Neville gasped as pain shot vibrantly up his arms as he attempted to flex his fingers, prompting a sympathetic wince from the other wizard. "Lee brought a medical kit, but we've not gotten to you yet, I'm afraid. You guys had a heck of a party without us, and there's worse than some broken fingers."

Neville nodded dazedly, then it all came back in a single, sickening rush, and he jumped to his feet so quickly that his head spun, weaving him back down to brace his elbows awkwardly against his thighs as he attempted to salvage his balance without use of his hands. Not that it mattered. His eyes were wide, and he could feel his pulse throbbing in his aching head as he looked around frantically. "Hannah!"

George gripped his shoulders in a firm but gentle hold, steadying him even as he pushed him back down to sit on the leaf-littered ground. "She's okay. Honest. They've got her over with the bad ones, but it's just to keep an eye on things; she's actually helping out. Just about everybody's told me what you did, but no one's been exactly clear on the details. Seems like it was a hell of a thing, though. More worried about you, really. Some kind of wandless… _something._ Crisped those things like Angie's cooking and blew them right out of her."

"She's all right?" He turned where George had motioned, his chest tight with terrified hope, and he heard himself let out a rough sob as he saw her.

Hannah was kneeling beside Ricky, her skin and robes coated so thickly in soot and ash that she looked more like her own shadow than herself, but she was smiling kindly as she held pressure on the blood-soaked cloth at his leg, and she was  _alive_. Oh, thank everything good and right, but she was  _alive!_

There was no keeping him down this time. Ignoring his mangled hands, the soreness, the dizziness, everything that had ceased to matter at all, he jumped up, crossing the clearing in what seemed like no time at all to fall to his knees again and grab her face between his hands, kissing her harder than he ever had in his life. His broken fingers and torn palms flared in protest, but the pain was nothing in the adrenaline of the moment, and there was nothing but joy behind the gasping sobs that pressed against her mouth now, that repeated her name over and over in heartbeats of relief. "Hannah! Hannah, oh, you're okay…oh Hannah…my  _Hannah!"_

And she was kissing him back, there were tears on her own cheeks now, and she was so warm and responsive and soft and sweet under his touch that the taste of char on her lips didn't matter at all. "Neville!" She broke away only a fraction, her forehead still against his. "Are  _you_ all right? You saved my life, but they said –"

"I don't know what I did," he admitted quickly. "Not really. Doesn't matter, though. It stopped it. It stopped it, and you're  _alive!"_

"Yes, baby, I'm alive," she said gently, stroking his cheek with one hand, her other having still never released the pressure on Ricky's wound. "I'm here. It's all right…we were so scared for you, though. You went down so hard, they said, and everyone was afraid you'd never wake up, but George – oh, you know how he is – he just rolled his eyes and said someone might as well try Ennervate at least before you slept through all the fun, or you'd never forgive us. No one really thought it would…but I'm just so glad you're okay!"

She laced her fingers through his hand, squeezing in what he knew was meant to be comfort, but it exploded pain up his entire arm, and he felt his face drain to the color of parchment as he doubled over, biting his lip hard to stifle a scream. " _Shit,_ Hannah!"

Her beautiful green eyes flew wide, and she dropped his hand instantly, her hand clapping to her mouth in horror. "Neville, you're hurt!"

Both hands were tucked to his chest now, cradled there instinctively like awkwardly crooked claws as he rocked back and forth, clenching his teeth as he fought the urge to shake or rub them that he knew would only make it worse. "Just. Broken. Fingers," he hissed. "All of them, I think. Don't know how it happened, but oh,  _Merlin,_ that aches.

Scars on my palms all ripped up too."

"No surprise, Commander." Ricky's voice startled him, and he looked down at the young soldier as if noticing him for the first time. His face was pale, his expression tight, but he seemed strong enough as he smiled up at him ruefully. "What you did…that was the most amazing thing I've seen since…well, since Harry blew old Moldypants across what was left of the Great Hall, really. You pack a heck of a punch sometimes…coulda used that a few minutes earlier, but you definitely impressed our new friends. Been just as sweet as treacle tart and real cooperative ever since. No one's really bothered telling them it was anything unusual."

"Our new –" Neville stopped, looking past Ricky now to really take in his surroundings as he hadn't since first arriving there from the embattled alley outside their warehouse prison.

The clearing was fairly small, but Utterson had been right, they were not in a proper forest. The woodlands surrounding them were thin, made mostly of young saplings, and through them, he could easily see wide, emerald-green fields broken by low stone walls and a town less than a mile away. It felt worryingly exposed, but they had little choice in their flight, and he could see the faint distortion at the edges of the underbrush that spoke silently of protective spells that would hopefully shield them from prying Muggle eyes as well as unwelcome visitors.

Within the clearing itself, the remaining D.A. were gathered in small, weary-looking clusters, and he searched each face quickly, tallying the well and the wounded before his eyes fell on three bodies that lay at the far edge of their refuge, their stiff, waxen features saying all too openly that there had been losses already. His heart clenched as he recognized Rose, only so recently recovered from their last ordeal, and beside her Felton, his shirt drenched in blood even as his face seemed as relaxed and calm as sleep. The third took a bit longer to place, but then he saw the red fist clenched on the forearm, and he realized it was Mark, the driver from the RHD who had always joked he would die young, but with the cavalier assumption that it would be his own reckless skill at the wheel that would take him to that early grave.

There were wounded too, more than just Jimmy. Seamus had a deep graze splitting the ornate artwork of the tattoo on his upper arm in addition to his broken nose. One side of Kevin's face was twisted and unnaturally stiff from a curse or hex he didn't recognize, and his fellow RHD member, Tommy, was staring in blank disbelief at an arm that was rotting and cadaverous from the elbow down. Of their own, Zacharias was white-faced and fighting hard against the obvious urge to cry out as Demelza probed his mutilated shoulder, her own hip freshly bandaged. Bernard was daubing a potion-soaked cloth against a nasty wand burn across his ribs, and Ginny was lying on her stomach, her fists clutching the leaves beneath her hands as a familiar, slightly-built man plucked pieces of broken glass from her back.

"Harry!" At the sound of his name, he turned, the sunlight flashing off the round glasses beneath his mop of messy black hair, and Neville stared incredulously as he stood again.

"What in Merlin's name are  _you_ doing here?!"

"Ginny called me." Taking a moment to lean down and murmur something in his wife's ear, he tossed the piece of glass away into the underbrush and wiped his bloody hands on the thighs of his trousers as he crossed to meet Neville halfway across the clearing. "They thought you were out of it, maybe for good, and anyway, she felt that you guys needed every wand you could get a lot more than you needed to worry about how it would look in the papers if something happened to me." He shrugged, then glanced around at the numerous injured. "Seeing's you got pretty well thrashed in the opening round of this, I can't say I disagree."

Neville's eyes narrowed, seeing several other new faces as well. "You brought more, too. George, Lee, Tony –"

"Justin, Charlie, Bill, Percy, and Oliver too," he nodded. "Seamus has filled us in as much as I guess we can hope to understand, but it doesn't really matter if I get it or not. It's obvious enough that there's real trouble here."

"Yeah, well, I guess you'd be more comfortable than most of us with a fight where you don't know what you're dealing with," his mouth twisted in a wry smile, then tightened to a grimace as his fingers howled in protest when he hadn't even realized he had attempted to move them.

He sucked in a sharp breath, forcing himself to ignore it. "Seriously, though, Harry, I'm grateful for the reinforcements, but you've got to go. You  _are_ too much of a potential coup, and not to put too fine a point on it, but you just don't have  _combat_  experience. A battle's not the same as a duel, no matter who you're up against. And we don't have prophecies and Horcruxes and what-have-you on our side this time."

Harry's face flushed darkly, his green eyes blazing indignation. "I was a little busy that night, Neville! I'm sorry I didn't get much chance to –"

"That's not the  _point!"_ he retorted. "You show that famously scarred face to people like that, and you're sending an engraved invitation to become Target Number One all over again!"

"And you don't think it's like that with the Department?" Harry scoffed. "We work together, you know perfectly well that there's not an ex-Death Eater we go after that wouldn't trade his wand for a chance to get back at me for Riddle. I'm not going to be safe  _anywhere_  until we've got the last one of those bastards behind very thick bars, and I'm just as much an Auror as you are – hell, I'm technically your superior officer – so I'd thank you very much to save your protective impulses for someone who needs them!"

"It's not about protecting you!" Neville was surprised to hear himself shout, but there was anger there, so much more and so much closer to the surface than he had been prepared for. He didn't know why, but he didn't much care, either. "It's not about you at all, if you can believe that! It's about Ron and Hermione and everyone else who's going to suffer and die if this maniac gets his way!"

Harry pressed forward, his fists clenched at his sides. "Ron and Hermione just happen to be my best friends since we were kids! I'm not going to just leave them!"

"Why not?!" It was out of control now, the fury spilling the words past all reason from the darkest places of resentment he hadn't even realized were there, but he couldn't stop it. "You abandoned all your other so-called 'friends!' Not a goddamned word, Potter, you didn't even  _ask_ about us when you had contact with the Order, much less – oh, I don't know – bother to send a  _message_ , send your precious Marauder's Map,  _anything_ to help us  _survive?!_ But no, because it didn't matter if the rest of the wizarding world was at  _war_ , you had your little personal quest from Dumbledore, and the rest of us could just wait for you to  _feel better_  about Rita Skeeter and her nasty little book that had you all upset!"

A heavy, shocked silence fell over the group, even the Muggles seeming to understand that a line had been crossed, but Neville did not feel the slightest guilt beyond the pulsing anger as Harry stared at him in a long moment of dumbfounded blankness before he began to tremble with rage of his own. "I didn't  _ask_ for it, Longbottom! I was a _baby_ when –"

"And Dennis and Renny and Elliot and Natalie and half the kids I held that year when they'd been beaten and Cruciated – half the kids who  _died_ for you – were babies! That's no –"

"SHUT YOUR FECKIN' FACES!" Neville whirled, his jaw dropping in disbelief as he saw Kevin standing barely a foot away from both of them, his arms crossed tightly as he glowered at the two wizards. "I don't know me arse from a hole in me head about what you're yammerin' on," he spat, "but we ain't got feck-all time left, and I know a pile o' shite that's long since stopped steamin' when I hear it! If you're wantin' the Sluagh and me boys to kiss and play patty-cake, ya can just put the lid on it 'til we've dealt with the son of a whore what sent the ladies in white to blow the hell outa that alley!"

Harry's frown deepened, and he turned to Kevin, brandishing his wand. "You stay out of this! This has nothing to do with –"

Out of nowhere, Kevin produced his own pistol, lashing out to strike Harry's wand from his hand with an almost casual gesture. "Feck off! Ya may be next best to feckin' Beckham in your world, but I don't know ya from Adam, and I don't feckin' care!" His attention turned back to Neville now, and in his bearing was all the cool authority of a fellow leader. "He's got his own 'Muggles,' plenty, 'sya call them. Fire with fire, I say, and if there's one o' ya what'll do that little beamin' trick o' yours again, I know where ya can find some nasty boys with some nasty toys up by Derry. Call themselves the RIRA."

Neville blinked, stunned. "But –"

A smile spread over Kevin's face, and he laughed humorlessly. "Oh, Jackie, darlin' – or Neville, or Pope Joan, or whatever ya want to be callin' yourself – as your old lady said, 'taint no time to be picky 'bout who's what. If the Diabhal feckin' Dubh can play both sides 'gainst the middle, no reason shouldn't we…besides –" the grin turned cold, cruel. "—if there's gonna be more blood waterin' Erin's green fields tonight, I reckon some o' it ought be Taig."


	12. Best Laid Plans

It was disgusting, but kind of cool in its way. He couldn't feel it, though, and that was probably a very good thing. Demelza had numbed his hands from the wrists down before casting the Transvisibility Spell that had rendered his fingers transparent, and he could see every vein and tendon beneath the now-glassy skin as she carefully set the breaks that neatly crossed the smooth ivory bone of each finger. It was so strange seeing into his own body; he had the urge to prod at it, but of course, his hands were unavailable to do so.

Neville frowned as she carefully slipped his wedding band off to maneuver his left ring finger. "You sure I'll be able to use them again in two hours?"

There was a pause before she answered, the ends of the bones now settled together again precisely before she encased it, like the eight others before, in an invisible magical splint. "If you're lucky. Might be more like three."

"Three!" he exclaimed. "Demmy, it's two o'clock already! You expect me to just sit around doing nothing until –"

"I don't expect anything," she said coolly. "I  _know_  that you don't have a choice." She took hold of the pinky finger now, never looking up. "Look, you didn't just crack these, you snapped them good and proper. You're incredibly fortunate that we have magic here, or you'd be having Hannah cut up your breakfast and wipe your bum for the next six to eight weeks. I'm going to be walking the very fine edge of overdosing you on Skele-Gro as it is so that you can have them solid enough to throw a punch or climb something in as  _little_ as two or three hours."

Neville sighed, forcing himself to smile tightly past the increasing urge he felt to throw what he knew would be a ridiculous and quite uncharacteristic tantrum. "Thank you, Demmy, you've been really incredible with everyone here."

She smiled wearily back at him, ducking her head to shrug one dark, curly tendril out of her eyes with her shoulder as she dug in the medical kit Lee had brought. "No, I've not. A real Healer could have done a lot more. There's gonna be some scars; Zach'll probably always have some pain in that shoulder, I had to amputate that poor Muggle boy. But I've tried, I really have, Commander, and I'm pretty sure I can promise you everyone back on their feet by sunset." Demelza hesitated, looking away as her voice dropped. "Well, you know…almost everyone."

His hands were finished now, and he reached out, patting her awkwardly on the shoulder with his forearm in what he hoped she recognized was meant to be a comforting gesture. "Rose and Felton aren't your fault. From what I've been told, they were dead by the time they even got here. I know you understand the Killing Curse, but Seamus says a Muggle gunshot wound to the chest like that is as good as the same thing."

"It's just a stupid little bullet!" She protested bitterly. "It's nothing but glorified rock-throwing! I should have been able to save him!"

Neville shook his head firmly. "Glorified rock-throwing or not, it makes a hole. And if you make a hole in certain body parts, it's over before  _anyone_ can do anything, wizard  _or_ Muggle. It's not your fault." She still didn't look at him, blinking too hard and too fast, and he pulled her into a stiff but genuine embrace as her body began to shudder against him.

"I wanted to  _be_ a Healer so it never happened again, Commander, so I never had to just watch…I was closing up Jimmy's arm, and I was just hit by how  _young_ he is – he's only nineteen, sir – but then I realized he's older than  _any_ of us were." She sucked in a deep gulp of air, and he could feel her crying although the sobs held no sound. "What in Merlin's name made us think we could do that? _"_

"We  _were_  young," he admitted. "Young and passionate and desperate and probably more than a little bit stupid…but we also didn't really have a choice, and we still don't. I know what you're saying, Demmy. By all rights we should still be too young to die, but the world doesn't work that way."

"How many more are we going to lose this time?" Demelza pulled back now, wiping her face with the back of her hand, and there was a cynical resignation in her tone that had welled up to replace the tears. Her eye had stuck, pointing eerily off to one side, and he nodded tactfully at it, earning a grateful little smile as she fixed it quickly before continuing. "Or should I just go ahead and assume that we're all going to be having a  _real_ five-year reunion?"

Neville hesitated before answering, knowing that he needed to try and stifle the burgeoning despair, but not wanting to replace it with what she would know to be empty optimism. "Honestly," he finally replied, "it depends on Seamus right now, and I'll admit that makes me nervous as hell too. I don't like sending him off with Kevin when they'd both be so happy to see each other dead, but he had a point: the RIRA won't listen to anyone who isn't Irish, and seeing those two together is the strongest argument we could make. If they bring back some decent reinforcements, then combined with the guys Harry brought, we might have a chance. If they can't get them to cooperate, though, or heaven forbid if they don't come back at all…."

He left it there, but he didn't need to finish, and she nodded in grim understanding. "Then our proverbial geese are officially fried."

"Yeah. That about covers it."

She held out a small cup to him, and he took the potion, making a face only briefly at the taste as she closed up the medical kit and got to her feet, brushing off her robes brusquely. "I'm sorry about that, Commander. You've got things to do, and so do I. I need to get back to Tommy, give him another round of painkillers and check that the stump is closing over properly, see if Zach's shoulder is ready to seal the skin over it…."

"You do that." Neville reached up, patting her on the hand once more with the side of his arm. "And take care of yourself, too, Demmy. I've got a nasty feeling we're going to be needing you again before this is over."

She made a face, but she had already started across the clearing again, the bag slung heavily over her shoulder. "Oh, I know that, Commander. Believe me, I know."

He watched her go for a few moments, then as she knelt down beside Tommy and began checking over the raw, pink flesh where his arm now ended just below the elbow, he looked down at his own braced and immobilized hands and sighed. He had told her only half the truth. It wasn't just that he was nervous about sending Seamus to fetch help for them; he was flat terrified.

The question of his friend's mental state was one that he was finding it harder and harder to answer, and so much hung on it now. Oh, he wasn't delusional – at least about the Diabhal Dubh – that much had become clear, but neither was he at all stable. He had always been high-strung, quicker than was ever good for him to run off at the mouth, but now he was positively explosive. The slightest comment, the slightest perceived impugnment was enough to send him into violent rage, and he too often seemed to have lost all trace of anything resembling a conscience. But then there were glimpses…a smile here, a flash of guilt in the blue eyes there…and it was his friend again. The young man who had sobbed over the fate of girls he only thought might be being harmed rather than this new stranger who would callously dismiss Hermione being brutally gang-raped as 'bloody unpleasant.'

Who was he now? Could they know? Did  _he_ know? Could he be trusted? Did they have a choice?

"Need your nose scratched?"

Neville looked up, startled out of his contemplation as a voice sounded from just behind his shoulder. He turned, shrugging in as welcoming a gesture as he could. "Not yet. That what brought you over here?"

"Nah." Charlie held up his own hands, turning them to show the myriad layers of scars and old burns crossing them. "But I've been where you are enough that I thought I'd ask. It always starts itching the second you can't use your hands. Although if anything else starts itching, you'd better call your wife. We just don't know each other  _that_ well."

Neville chuckled, and Charlie accepted the unspoken offer, taking a seat cross-legged on the ground next to him. "Mostly wanted to talk to you about what happened with Harry. Everyone's been skirting around you since you blew up at him – well, both of you really. You seriously pissed him off with that crack about Dumbledore, and if he didn't have a problem with you being in charge before, he does now. There's this nasty feeling that people are supposed to take sides."

He could feel himself bristle, but he bit back the too-easy anger as hard as he could, knowing now that it was some sort of after-effect of what he had done to save Hannah. Knowing only helped so much, but it was at least enough to keep him from biting off Charlie's head for no reason at all. "I'm not expecting anyone to 'take sides'," he said tersely. "I don't see why that should even be an issue. Even if I'm not thrilled with what Ginny did, I understand why she did it, but I'm  _not_ down, and by the time we're ready to fight, I'll be completely healed, so Harry can have all the problems he wants. Doesn't change that this is my show."

"It's not…" there was a heavy pause, then Charlie began again carefully. "No one respects what you did with the D.A. more than me, Neville. I was the first one there with the reinforcements. I saw that battlefield, and I couldn't believe that kids your age had managed to survive at all, much less inflict that kind of incredible punishment on Riddle's forces. But this isn't Hogwarts. Maybe you should think about –"

"I'm not going to step aside with  _my_ people just because Harry's got a swelled head and thinks he's entitled to run things!" Neville snapped. "So you can just forget it."

"I wasn't talking about Harry at all, actually." The older man folded his arms across his chest with an almost patronizing look. "If you'll just hear me out before you go leaping to conclusions, I actually meant why don't you circumvent the whole issue and let Bill handle this."

" _Bill?"_ Neville repeated incredulously. "Why the hell --?"

"He's been a Curse-Breaker since you were floating across the lake to your first term at Hogwarts," Charlie pointed out. "He's had all kinds of experience with magic that no one remembers,  _and_ he was Order. He's even done a little bit of Pictish curse work since he moved back from Egypt, and he's learned some more principles of foreign magic from his wife. And as someone with the same credentials, I'd like to point out that he's got more than a bit of a vested interest in getting little Ronniekins back in one piece. No offense, Nev, but you wouldn't have to answer to our Mum if this didn't go well."

Despite himself, Neville chuckled at the very real flash of fear in the brown eyes that didn't seem to be at all for his little brother's safety, but then he shook his head. "I'll definitely listen to what Bill has to say, but these –"

The oddly doubled crack of side-along Apparition cut off his words, and every head snapped around to the center of the clearing. To Neville's immense relief, Seamus was there – apparently unharmed – and hanging on to each arm in an almost amusingly deliberate utilitarian hold were Kevin and a third man he did not recognize. He got to his feet immediately, starting towards them as the two Muggles sprang apart, shaking their heads in disorientation.

"Holy mother of Christ!" announced the newcomer. "Ya weren't jokin' around, were ya? Now I know how a feckin' turd feels hittin' the jakes!" He was a tall man, somewhere in his late twenties or early thirties, lanky and almost fragile-looking at first with his nearly translucently pale skin and loose camouflage fatigues. A second look, however showed a lupine quality to the wiry strength of his limbs, and his grey eyes beneath the dirty blonde crew cut held the icily shrewd look of a man who has killed more than once and doesn't lose sleep over it.

Neville gave a little bow, then held up his hands with a lopsided smile. "Sorry about that, I know it's uncomfortable, but it's the quickest way to get you here. I'd shake your hand, sir, but I'm afraid I've got a few things on the mend right now, so if you'll accept the gesture in theory, I'm Neville Longbottom, Commander of the D.A. as you've probably been told, and I'm assuming you're with the R.I.R.A."

"Aiden Maher." He put out his own hand, shaking Neville's elbow instead with a nod of his own towards the stiffened hands. "I see it weren't no bally-hoo that ya lot got your arses booted from here to the River Boyne, but I were o' the impression it were that there Mr. Finnigan what were runnin' matters."

"This is a joint operation." Harry stepped forward now, and Neville's shoulders tightened as he extended his hand to shake Maher's with an infuriatingly confident smile. "Harry Potter. Deputy Head of the Ministry of Magic Auror Division. Mr. Longbottom is one of my men…the D.A is something I started a few years back that he did a wonderful job of turning into a sort of paramilitia, but it's not anything official. I'm here to see that this matter gets resolved before there's any more unfortunate loss of life, and we're extremely grateful for your assistance, sir."

To Harry's obvious surprise, Maher dropped his hand as though it were something filthy, wiping his palm on his trouser leg as he shot an accusing look at Seamus. "Ya didn't say the feckin'  _Crown_ were –"

"They ain't!" Seamus' face had turned to a livid scarlet, and he glared from Neville to Harry and back again with such mercurial hate that it re-awakened every one of his recent fears about the other wizard's sanity. "This ain't your place, Aurors. Ain't your land, ain't your culture, ain't your language, ain't your feckin'  _turf._ I've been puttin' me neck on the block after this bastard two years now while ya did't even know he existed, so don't ya go prancin' in and tryin' to take over what ya ain't got no blessed clue on. You're listenin' to me, or ya can just go home."

"Ah, but goin' home when they ain't welcome ain't a Brit talent, now is it, Finnigan?" Maher crossed his arms and chuckled darkly with a pointed sidelong glance at Kevin. "They're probably just too used to so-called 'Irishmen' kneelin' to smile and give thanks for kissin' the dingleberries off their arse every time they take a squat."

"We don't expect anything of the kind, Mr. Maher." Bill stepped smoothly between the two Muggles before anything could erupt, his horribly scarred face curved into a surprisingly charming smile as he held up both hands in a placating gesture. "I completely respect your desire for an independent Ireland, but that's not what this is about at the moment, as you know. There's a lot of passion in general here, but Mr. Potter, Mr. Longbottom, and Mr. Finnigan have a lot of very complicated history that doesn't need to get in the way of all of us working together any more than your Troubles in the Muggle world."

He gave a little bow, not looking at the younger wizards who had momentarily put aside their differences in collective indignation at the intrusion. "My name is William Weasley – you can call me Bill, if you'd like – and I don't know if you're aware, but one of the hostages in this situation is my younger brother."

"I don't care if he's your feckin' Siamese twin!" Kevin said bluntly, pulling the gun from his belt and running his fingers lightly along the slide. "If that feckin' mackerel-snapper opens his mouth one more time, I'll teach him a whole new Mass."

"Ya just try it, Princess." Maher sneered. "But I don't think the Chopsticks'd let ya get too far. They need me and me men, they do."

The slide on the gun was pulled back with an ominously simple click. "They ain't half's as sweet as ya think they are. Can call us 'Muggles' and look down their noses at us all they want, but I've seen one o' their fancy flashin' little wankers blown right between kingdom and come by what I got right here."

"That's some nice gratitude, Kevin." Neville's voice was cold but deliberately unafraid as he stared evenly at the other man. "Considering that our 'meager powers' could have easily left you for the police, and you weren't putting up a lot of argument when Demelza's 'fancy flashin'' kept that curse from going any farther up Tommy's arm. And given that there are now wizards who have seen your faces and count you as enemies, I'd say you need us just as much if not more than we need you."

"Everyone needs everyone," Bill announced. "But what we need at the moment is some kind of chain of command. Now, we're dealing with completely unknown magic here, so I'm going to have to ask for as much information as each of you have, because this IS my area of expertise, and while the military issues--"

"Are  _mine –"_ Neville interrupted, but before he could continue, Harry cleared his throat loudly.

" _Auror_ Longbottom, don't you think we should –"

A bright flare of light and a sharp bang cut him off mid-sentence, and Neville felt his body freeze stiffly with the unmistakable rigidity of a Body-Bind Jinx. He could move nothing but his eyes, yet it was enough to see that he was not the only one so affected, and he had no way of expressing his surprise as Anthony stepped into the center of their little circle, his hands on his hips as he turned slowly to glower at each in turn.

"And what  _I_  have," he said caustically, "is a set of robes back home with blue lining, ergo I  _also_  have a brain located about three feet above any of yours, which means to say far enough away from my trousers that I can use it. So, you want I should let you go and we discuss this like rational humans and not a pack of wolves fighting for Alpha, or should the rest of us just leave you like this and do the best we can?"

"I don't know, Tony." George joined him, shaking his head at Bill in particular with a look of long-suffering disappointment. "Some of them have been like this a long time."

"We could just make it easy and do it the way they seem to want to." He could hear Ginny from somewhere at the edge of their little clearing – still on her stomach letting Demelza's potion heal the wounds on her back, he knew – but even though he couldn't turn his head to see her, the look on her face was clear enough in her voice. "Pull down their trousers and get the ruler. I've got the right to give you permission to do it to one of them at least. Hannah, you want to release the rights for yours?"

"Are you kidding, Ginny?! That's the most ridiculous, juvenile,  _Neanderthal_ means of picking a leader I think I've ever heard of!" The scandalized tone in Hannah's voice brought a surge of affectionate pride at her defense of him in this, but that turned abruptly to shock as she continued crisply. "It's perfect for them. Do you want me to strip him myself while you get the Idiot Who Lived?"

"Ladies, ladies…" George raised both hands, gesturing them back archly. "I understand that this rampant display of testosterone has you all kinds of excited, but if we were going to do it that way…well, I've always been more instigator than leader, and I don't like switching brooms mid-flight."

"What we  _need_ ," Anthony said pointedly, "is someone to logically impose a chain of command and find some sane means of equitably dividing power where  _everyone's_ strengths get used to their best advantage."

"Why, Tony –" George's eyebrows lifted in shock, and he exchanged a look with someone out of Neville's line of site whom he assumed by the distinctly brotherly quality to the wink was probably Charlie. "—It sounds almost like you have something in mind."

"Actually, Mr. Weasley," Anthony pushed his glasses up on his nose with the back of the hand holding his wand as he smiled with surprisingly genuine modesty. "As a matter of fact, I do. The problem is, you guys are acting like one person's going to be In Charge and everyone else is Doxie dung. It doesn't have to be that way. Look –" he licked his lips nervously, as if suddenly aware that he was dictating things to both his commanding officers and several other men who could easily disassemble him in their sleep, Auror or not.

For a moment, it seemed as though he were going to back down entirely, then he took a deep breath and squared his narrow shoulders firmly. "We've got two missions, actually. Rescuing Ron and Hermione and taking down the Diabhal Dubh. So I say we split up. Harry; no one cares about those two as much as you do…no offense to Bill, Charlie, George, and Ginny, but even if they can match you on Ron, Hermione's not as important to them as she is to you. And I don't think even they could predict what Ron would do in a given situation as well as you can."

George had frowned, a flush beginning to spread across his cheeks in the hot crimson that he shared with the rest of his family, but then he stopped, nodding a bit reluctantly. "I love the little snot to death, but I've gotta admit that I didn't even know he was hot for Little Miss Know-It-All until Mum caught them  _en flagrante delicto_  in the garage…and hell, didn't take two ears to hear  _that_ all the way to Diagon Alley, but Harry says he's had his guesses since fourth year and was dead certain by six, so there you go." He grinned easily now, reaching out to muss Harry's already perpetually tousled head and cause an effect rather like a violently alarmed black Pygmy Puff. "So I'm with Tony so far. You should definitely be in command of that part of things, Potter."

"Glad you agree." Anthony smiled with obvious relief at having part of his plan validated at least, and when he continued, it was with a little more confidence. "Bill, you should work directly with him; both because you  _are_ Ron's brother and because there's probably going to be all kinds of curses and who knows what trying to keep them from getting away or anyone getting to them. And Dooley, you've got the smaller Muggle force, but you're right, we don't know how to fight with your weapons, but we  _can_ be hurt or killed by them, so Harry and Bill are going to need your kind of help, and I think it's better to keep your people and Maher's from mixing as much as we can."

"Well shite on a feckin' shingle, but it looks like the queer little Kike might be the first one o' ya can see what's in front o' his feckin' face!" Tommy laughed in obviously real delight and astonishment, and if he had been at all capable, Neville would have buried his face in both hands and shaken his head as Anthony visibly stiffened.

He knew from his brief, strange friendship with Sean that for all the slurs and hateful statements thrown around so casually by the young terrorists, the only ones meant with any genuine malice were those aimed at their Nationalist foes. The rest were just a mixture of ignorant but practically harmless prejudice and a merciless dogfight of a life that took no heed of niceties of  _any_ kind, but he knew Anthony had no way of understanding this as he turned quickly, firing a curse into the leaves at Tommy's feet that sent the other man yelping back a step.

"You call me a Kike, a Yid, a Sheeny, or anything else that's on the tip of that disgusting tongue, and you'll be feeding it flies for the rest of your life because I'll turn it into a toad!" Anthony hissed furiously. "What part of 'we're on the same side' are you having trouble getting through that thick head, Paddy?"

There was a moment's stunned silence, none of them ever having seen the usually quiet Ravenclaw lose his temper, but then out of the corner of his eye, Neville saw Zacharias get to his feet, careful not to move his still-injured shoulder. "He'll do it, too. Nailed an easy 'O' on his Transfiguration N.E.W.T.s when we'd missed half the year, and what that means to you is that he can turn just about anything into just about anything else without even trying hard, so I wouldn't make him mad if I were you."

Tommy stared at the smoldering crater in the ground in front of him, then fingered the livid stump of his arm, his ruddy face suddenly pale. When he looked up again, Neville was ready to see anger in the light blue eyes, but to his surprise, there was neither fury nor fear, but an almost innocent fascination and…yes,  _curiosity._ As if nothing had ever dared challenge his simplistic view of the world before. He nodded rather humbly at Anthony. "I'm…sorry." The words were clearly strange on his lips, but it was just as plain that they were sincerely meant. "No need be turnin' me to naught. I just meant ya seemed to be havin' a good idea on splittin' things up with the High Mucka-Muckas over there, and I'm glad I ain't gonna be expected to rub elbows with no feckin' Pope-suckin' Finian cunts."

George seemed to have noticed the same hints of something dawning as Neville himself, because he caught his eye deliberately, shrugging minutely with a barely-suppressed chuckle as he rolled his eyes and mouthed  _One step at a time, eh?_

He couldn't respond, but he hoped George saw the agreement in his eyes as Anthony stepped back brusquely into the middle of their frozen circle. "Anyway, where were we? Right. Rescue mission. I'm thinking Justin, myself, Zach, Hannah, and Demmy for that team too. A couple more solidly qualified Aurors, but we learned to split up couples in the D.A., so Hannah's with you and Ginny's with the other team, and you should have the closest thing we've got to a Healer since we don't know if our hostages will need medical help or how badly."

Neville was glad he couldn't turn his head now, because if the look in Harry's eyes at that last matter-of-fact assignment had been half as pained as Bill's…. It must have been, though, because Anthony went on a little too quickly from there. "Our job will be entirely hostage retrieval. Get in, free them, get out. No messing around with the bigger picture, so the smaller force should be enough."

He took a deep breath, rubbing his hands together in a rapid gesture that betrayed the nerves he was otherwise doing an excellent job of hiding, and Neville's eyes widened as he suddenly remembered a drunken confession in the Room of Requirement from the brief time of boyish camaraderie that now hurt so much for all the missing faces in the memories that he almost never thought of it.  _You-Know-Who's not so bad. Scariest thing_ I  _can ever imagine is talking in front of people. Not so much you guys, but_ anyone  _I don't know, even one person. I'd rather be Cruciated. Swear to God._

And it was all still there; there in the tight tremble of his fingers on his wand, in the sickly green undertone to his swarthy complexion, but his voice was firm and steady, and not for the first time, he was reminded that bravery didn't always come in dramatic sacrifices beneath a crimson lion banner. Anthony turned to him now, his dark eyes fixing on Neville's without hesitation.

"Commander, you're the only one here who has ever actually lead an outright  _battle._ The Diabhal Dubh and his men – and keeping them away from us while we go after Ron and Hermione – are yours. You work with Seamus, who has the best grasp of what he's going to be fighting with, and with Maher, who has the greater numbers. Ginny, Charlie, Oliver, and the rest of the D.A. go with you. You've lead us before, you know our strengths, our weaknesses, how we fight. _"_ He was talking faster now, hurrying to wrap it up. "You make your plans, Harry makes his, we coordinate by five to knit it all together, and nobody needs to posture about anything because really, we're pretty well screwed without any one of you. And…uh…that's it."

George stepped forward, wrapping one stocky arm across Anthony's shoulders and squeezing tightly. "Didn't sort you wrong, that's for sure. Now, why don't we see if our brilliant leadership can listen at least as well as a bloke who only catches every other word in life?" He gave his wand a casual little waggle in a circle, and Neville let out a deep sigh as the paralyzing stiffness eased, allowing him to stretch and flex his arms and legs, shaking his head in an involuntary attempt to dispel the last of the jinx as he saw all around him the others doing the same.

Maher was the first to speak, and Neville started to reach carefully for his wand, wanting to be ready if the R.I.R.A. leader had been infuriated by the use of magic against him, but it seemed at first as if the Body-Bind hadn't released his hands before he realized that they were still splinted uselessly. Yet to his relief, the precaution was unneeded as Maher spat on the ground before giving Anthony a lop-sided smile. "And if more were's fair as ya in givin' each man what's rightful his, boy, I'd not be happier to be out 'o business. I'm for it if I ain't alone."

"Ain't that lovely," Kevin snorted. "Though'f you're so keen that splittin' matters up be a fair solution, why don't ya just hitch up that feckin' caravan o' yours and take your bleedin' arse south outa our clacks?"

Maher spun, but Charlie had already flung himself between the two Muggles in a lightning-fast movement, his wand drawn and bouncing menacingly on one scarred and callused palm. "Now, now, boys…" he said sternly, managing to sound remarkably like his mother and not at all someone to be taken lightly. "Do we have to have another time-out?"

Muttering under their breath, the paramilitary leaders backed slowly away from one another in answer, and Charlie was not the only one to visibly relax as they did so. Still, he did not put his wand away as he looked towards Harry, who was making a futile effort to coerce his hair back down from what George had done to it. "What about you and Neville? Seem like an okay arrangement?"

"Yeah," Harry nodded. "I'm good with it…" he glanced at Neville, his expression unreadable beneath a layer of caution. "If you are, that is."

"I think it's brilliant," Neville said immediately. "Tony's absolutely right. It really plays to all our strengths. Bill, Seamus?" he gestured as amicably as he could with his awkwardly splayed hands. "How about it?"

Both wizards nodded, Bill appearing rather sheepish although Seamus showed no trace of guilt over his previous part in the display, and the entire clearing seemed to let out an audible sigh of relief as the approval became unanimous.

Kevin clapped his hands together, startling several people, then rubbed them briskly before flinging an arm over Harry's shoulders and mussing his hair again just as he seemed to have finally struck a truce with it. "Grand!" He leaned in close with a casual grin that belied ever having drawn a gun on anyone there. "Though if we're to be workin' together, there's somethin' I've been meanin' to ask ya…'tis a feckin' odd scar ya got on your forehead, there. Looks almost deliberate. Somethin' that matters in your world, is it?"

Every witch and wizard in the clearing, including Neville himself burst out laughing, but thankfully, Harry didn't look angry or even all that embarrassed as he took off his glasses, rubbing the lenses on his shirttail before replacing them with an exaggeratedly weary shake of his head. "Oh, Kevin," he chuckly dryly, "that's a long,  _long_ story."

There was another round of laughter at this, but Neville had stepped away, chasing after Anthony, who was walking quickly towards the edge of the underbrush, his gait odd, as if he could barely keep himself from breaking into a run. "Tony!"

The other wizard stopped, but his shoulders were tense, and Neville saw now that his forehead was shining with sweat as he slowly looked back.. "Yes, sir?"

"That wasn't just a brilliant idea, mate." He smiled as sympathetically as he could while trying not to come across as at all patronizing. "I know it wasn't easy…you know, getting up there in front of everyone like that and bringing us to our senses. I just wanted to say that I'm proud of you, and that I appreciate the kind of guts it took."

"Thank you, Commander." Anthony smiled back at him, but there was something very wrong, very tight there, and he had no time to wonder what it was before his friend took a deep, gulping breath. "And now if you don't mind, sir, I'm going to go throw up. Quite a lot."

OOO

"They say ya've done a battle before, Longbottom." Maher crossed his arms, cocking his head with an appraising look. "Where were it, Bosnia?"

"Scotland, actually," Neville said with a wry smile. "We had an all-out war in the wizarding world; bloke named Tom Riddle put himself up as the Dark Lord Voldemort –" Maher gave a bemused snort, and he shook his head quickly. "Don't laugh! The name might have been a little ridiculous, sure, but there was nothing funny about it. 'Reign of Terror' is about the nicest thing you could say. I was still at school then, most of us here were, although some of the older ones like Bill were part of a resistance called the Order of the Phoenix."

He paused, struggling to find a way to reduce several years of complicated wizarding politics and the suffering of thousands into an expedient summary a Muggle could understand. "They'd taken over Hogwarts – that's the school all the wizarding kids go to – and it was hell, pure and simple. If I could pull up my shirt, I'd show you where I got flogged nearly to death for just a little graffiti trying to resist, and we were being tortured with magic almost every day. Kids were being kidnapped, murdered, all kinds of things. So we formed our own army, a lot like what you've done, actually, an underground thing. And  _exactly_ five years ago today, it all came down to one final battle on the school grounds. Riddle and about three hundred of his elite, a half-dozen giants, hundred or so werewolves –" he couldn't keep back a chuckle at the other man's startle at this. "Yeah, real werewolves. And about a hundred on our side."

Maher whistled softly, his eyes wide. "Bloody hell. And ya  _won?"_

"It was close, I won't lie," Neville sighed, shaking his head at the memory. "We lost over half our people in the first wave, then there was a cease-fire, and I don't think there would have been any survivors from the second wave if Charlie hadn't gotten there with some serious reinforcements and Harry hadn't killed Riddle himself."

The Irishman glanced dubiously at where Harry had already gathered Bill and Kevin into a tight knot of whispered conference at the other side of the clearing. "That little shitehawk?" Harry was no longer as scrawny as he had once been – growing properly into adulthood had added some width to his shoulders and some thickness to his chest and arms – but he was still only five foot five and quite slender, and the glasses and hair only added to the look of someone who seemed far more likely to be the target of a schoolyard bully than to have taken on the most feared dark wizard in living memory.

Seamus nodded matter-of-factly. "It were complicated, but aye, he did. And we'd taken more than two hundred before they called it down, so's we didn't do too bad for ourselves." A dark smile slit his mouth, his eyes glittering too eagerly. "Took sixteen meself, and I remember every bleedin' one, I do. Feckin' Travers were beggin' for mercy at me knees, and if that's not the sweetest memory of that whole nightmare, don't know what is. And so's mercy I gave him, too. Don't reckon he felt a thing when I blew his feckin' head off, the bastard. He'd killed Natty."

"Your bird?"

Seamus let out a bitter snort of something that couldn't quite be called laughter. "Hardly! Fourteen years old, she was, and I were eighteen!"

"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! That's just a girl! Feckin'  _child!"_

"Look around here, Maher, me darlin', and tuck five years off." Seamus waved his hand around the clearing, gesturing to the various members of the D.A. who had settled into their own quiet conversations to await their leaders' plans. "Hell yes, we were children. Look at Jimmy there! He's but nineteen these days and he got his pretty face rearranged the way ya see it now that night. But we're grown, we are, and we ain't forgotten how to fight."

For a long moment, Maher considered the young soldier who sat with his hands braced beneath him, biting his lip as Demelza probed the last open portion of the wound in his arm, her wand carefully lifting out little fragments of cloth and other debris. He was clearly in a great deal of pain, but he was making no sound, and it was hard to tell how much of the grimace he wore was from the discomfort and how much was the perpetual twisting of the scar that all but obliterated the side of his otherwise-handsome face. At last, Maher nodded simply, turning his attention back to the other two men. "Fair enough, Finnigan. So where'd we start?"

Neville looked around, then motioned towards the loose leaf litter at their feet. "I'd clear some ground so we could use the dirt for our blackboard, but…." He shrugged, holding up his splinted hands.

Seamus nodded in understanding, drawing his own wand. "Easy that." He gave the polished alder a little flick, and the leaves vanished, leaving them room to sit easily with a circle of clear earth about six feet wide in the center.

Neville crouched, resting his hands on his knees as the others took their own positions across from him. "Good. Now, I'll admit that I'm a little nervous about having two and a half hours to plan this when we had almost a year last time –"

"And all those sweet plans went out the window quick enough when the shite hit," Seamus scoffed, "so where I'm sittin' it don't much matter how much time we have. If anythin', we're better off plannin' from closer on."

"Okay, then, why don't you start us out?" Neville offered, nodding his head towards his former Lieutenant. "You've got the best idea of what we're walking into anyway."

"I'm only goin' off what Icarus told me, so don't be castin' it in stone, but that lad were a hundred times brilliant, and I'd trust him if he'd told me the sky were pink and the stars were cheese, so the Diabhal Dubh'll be havin' an altar set up, he will, and let's be callin' it here." He reached out, putting a large oak leaf on the ground in the middle of the circle. "Then he'll have Ron and Hermione here and here –" two pebbles flanked the leaf. "—and a big feckin' bonfire somewhere hereabouts, his lot in a circle 'round that." He illustrated this with a fragment of bark in front of the 'altar', then drew his wolf's-head knife, using the blade to sketch a line around it all before sitting back and admiring his handiwork with a small noise of satisfaction.

"Sentries?" Maher asked.

"Probably not," Seamus shook his head confidently, gesturing towards what he had just done. "'Tis a ritual, not just a meetin', and he'll want all his lot in on the magic. 'Specially the Muggles, seen's how he's promised he'll be givin' it out like Father Christmas."

"Magic?" Maher sat up suddenly stiffly, a greedy gleam appearing in the gray eyes. "Ya can give it to me, then?"

"Absolutely not. And that's CAN'T, not WON'T." Neville infused his tone with as much stubborn finality as he could, meeting the Muggle leader's eyes evenly. "It's something you're either born with or not. We can't even do anything for our own people who are born without it."

"Then how's he expectin' to get by with what he's promised?" Maher fired back, clearly unconvinced that they were not simply holding out on him.

"A whole lotta bull'n blarney, plus a few charmed objects is me best guess. As so…." Seamus picked up a large acorn, tapping it with his wand before handing it to Maher. It sat in the palm of his hand innocuously, and he frowned at it, clearly confused as Seamus waved a hand at him. "Well, say somethin'. Hocus Pocus, feck me mother, whatever ya like. Ya wanted magic, I've given ya magic."

"Um…ala-ka –" The acorn exploded violently, blasting apart in a burst of orange smoke and a shower of bright sparks that made Maher yank his hand back with an almost girlish yelp of shock. "SHITE! I –"

"Ya didn't naught." Seamus gave his wand another flick, causing a second acorn on the ground to explode the same way as the first. "'Twere charmed by a real wizard and set to blow when it were spoke to." His blue eyes narrowed keenly at Maher as comprehension began to dawn on the other man's face. "Ya followin' now?"

"Too I am." He paused a moment, a look of fleeting disappointment crossing his face as he regarded the shards of the acorn that had served as a demonstration that he would not, in fact, be getting magic of his own, then he shook his head dismissively and glanced up again. "Ya say he's got seventy, then?"

"Been chasin' his arse for two years," Seamus pronounced authoritatively. "I can promise ya seven ex-Death Eaters, twenty-odd wizards in general, and about forty or fifty o' the nastiest Muggles this island's got to her name. Nail bomb Nellies who couldn't give a rat's fart for Ireland – Home Rule  _or_ Republic – but got a real chub for the blood'n gore."

He had heard the numbers before, but something about the tone this time eliminated all hope of exaggeration or hyperbole, and Neville frowned, roughly scratching tic marks in the dirt as he counted off their own resources. "We've got me, Seamus, Ginny, George, Naomi, Rachel, Jimmy, Oliver, Charlie, Ricky, Norman, Art, Bernie, and Mandy –" he stopped, looking up at Maher as he remembered something that might come as an unpleasant shock none of them needed. "I should warn you, her vocal cords were destroyed, and she's had to learn to use projective Legilimency, which means you'll hear her in your head. And that makes fourteen. What can you give us?"

"Fifty-odd if we could have every mother's son, but more's twenty who'll be willin' to believe this whole malarkey."

"So that's about thirty-five, and Harry has eleven. Call it forty-five to seventy. Not the best odds, but not the worst, either, especially if we can get the drop on them." Neville looked at the diagram, considering their options, but Maher was staring over at the D.A. again, pulling at his lip as his brow creased thoughtfully.

"I say we mix it up's much we can," he said finally. "Don't let them know what we've got o' what."

"What do you mean?"

"Take ya back to Derry and suit ya up." Maher plucked at the collar of his own fatigues. "Everyone in cammo. That'll be better for fightin' in a forest at dusk besides…those dresses some o' yours're wearin'll just get tangled in the brush. Guns with blanks for your lot, and it don't take no time t'teach someone to pull a trigger. Some borrowed magic like Finnigan just did for mine. So's we're all wizards and all normal folk and they don't know their arse from up."

Neville thought about it a moment, then grinned, nodding eagerly. "I love it. Confusion is definitely something that would help us there. Seamus?"

"Fine by me. But I'm sweet for both, meself. Lost most o' me firepower at the warehouse, but gimme a nine-mil, and I can change your religion from a hundred yards while you're runnin', I can." He raised his knife, running his thumb over the razored edge with a grim smile. "And this little darlin' and I have a lovely relationship."

Neville shivered at the knowledge of what that knife had done, then pushed it aside, getting back to the matter at hand. "Coming in is the biggest problem I can see. We'll have to Apparate a long way off if we don't want them to hear it, and that makes me nervous as hell since we don't know exactly where we're going. Not to mention it's incredibly easy to get separated on rough terrain."

"I can hook ya up to radios, make that part a bit easier," Maher offered, then frowned. "But I thought ya knew where they'd be?"

"We have an excellent guess of a rough area, but nothing precise," Neville admitted.

"Feckin' Christ!" Maher rolled his eyes in despair, flinging both hands up as he shook his head.

"Scouts. That's all there is for it." Seamus tapped the ground again, drawing an X with the knife about three feet away from where the imaginary ritual was set. "We get everyone in place in the  _least_ likely part o' the forest, then we send out scouts to find the bastards and call it back in with Maher's radios."

Neville raised an eyebrow curiously at the other wizard's confident tone. "Have anyone in mind for that?"

"Me, a'course, and I'd say Ginny, Ollie, and Charlie besides. All's good fighters, but more to, we're all fast and on the smaller side. Don't need your six foot odd shovin' through the underbrush, Auror."

"And I've two more I can put to that," Maher added. "Could sneak up on a feckin' cat, those lads."

"Good." Neville chose to ignore Seamus' little dig, knowing that however tactlessly phrased, it was also true. He was no longer as clumsy as he had been as a child, but sneaking through an unfamiliar forest wasn't one of the times his solidly built height would come in handy. "So, now we've got scouts. Once we've found them –"

"Circle them. They'll all be facin' in a circle themselves, and all we do's make the noose." Maher leaned forward, using his finger to draw a second, larger ring around the first. "Like fish in a bleedin' barrel."

"No feckin' way." Seamus shook his head before the outline was even completed. "We'll take more o' our own than theirs."

"It's the –"

"Seamus is right." Neville cut off the protest before it could even really form. "That's only a great plan if no one ever misses a shot or spell. Otherwise, anything that goes wild will go straight across and is almost guaranteed to hit our own."

Maher's face darkened, but Seamus had scooted in closer, erasing Maher's circle with the side of his hand. "Shove in hard and spread it."

Neville blinked, confused. "What?"

"Sounds like a lovely thing for a Saturday night," Maher chuckled, "but I ain't with ya here."

"Hit with everythin' in one spot." Seamus tucked his fingers together, drawing them through the ring that signified the Diabhal Dubh's forces, then spread them wide and twisted his wrist, making a smaller circle around the bark 'bonfire.' "Break the circle, take the center in a circle o' our own. Our backs at the fire so's we can't be flanked, and 'tis always easier to fight from a strong position if you're outnumbered."

Maher shook his head skeptically. "They'll just run."

"So we leave some at the edges." Seamus shrugged, pulling back again and twirling the knife lightly in his hands with long-practiced ease. "Not like he were sayin', but to pick them off or kick them back inta play if they try to kiss off. Can't keep them Apparatin', but the Diabhal Dubh wouldn't take kindly on any what ran out on him, and keeps ya in a job, don't it, Auror?"

"It seems good," Neville said slowly, "but I don't know. Seems almost  _too_ easy."

"Oh, I wouldn't be worryin' about that, Auror." The familiar black smile had returned to Seamus' face. "See, there's another reason I got not to be wantin' to fight from the forest 'smuch as we can help it."

There was something ominous there that made Neville's stomach crawl, and he was almost reluctant to ask. "Why?"

"The  _trees."_

"Ya mean…" The color drained from Maher's already-pale face, and he ran his hand over his close-cropped hair nervously. "Jesus, like that thing last year, that movie, the one with the feckin' queer elves and the little people and them big walkin', talkin' tree monsters?"

"Don't know what you're on there," Seamus said dismissively, "but what  _I'm_ talkin' about is that a lot o' the old magic's about pervertin' and twistin' the natural way o' things, and Icarus showed me once how he could bring a tree to life o' a sort – near most an Inferi, he made o' it – and make it do's he pleased. And ya don't realize how feckin'  _big_ they are 'til they're movin' around all by their sweet selves like the Whompin' bloody Willow!" His voice turned cold as he looked to Neville. "But ya don't need me tellin' ya there's unnatural things bein' done with plants…bloody near killed your wife with it, they did."

"So how do we counter it?" Neville demanded sharply, refusing to allow himself to think of the awful vines crawling and writhing over Hannah's still body. "And will Shield Charms work on any of what we can expect from him?"

"They'll still be usin' the same magic we know for part o' it…ya can't just unlearn a man everythin' he's grown up usin', so don't go tossin' your O.W.L.s and N.E.W.T.s out the window just yet. I'd do me best to teach ya a few basic bits o' the Gaelic, but the pronunciation's thrice bastard if ya ain't used to it, and for the most, you're fairest off tryin' to take them down before ya need worry what they'll hit ya with."

"So what you're meanin'," Maher said nastily, "is shoot the little dearies first and let God sort the rest."

"The words from me very mouth, love."

Neville looked around at the thin saplings that surrounded the clearing, trying to imagine even their lithe branches turned into whiplash attacks, roots pulling from the soil to create an army of huge, wooden soldiers who could feel no pain and were nearly limitless in number. The thought was not comforting. "Then there  _is_ no fighting back when they use the old magic against us?"

"No easy way, and that's bein' bald true," Seamus confessed, spreading his hands openly. "'Tis as far gone from the tamed, domesticated magic we were taught on as me Nana's wee teacup poodle from a wolf, 'tis. Dark, raw magic from dark times when the land were wild and men fought by bashin' each other's brains with rocks and shillelagh and big bloody axes, and it don't want your practice and your pretty spells, it wants your  _soul,_ sure's a Dementor do."

There was a cold knowledge in the way he said the last, and Neville's voice dropped to a horrified rasp as he looked at his friend again in a new, terrible light, wondering if he had finally found the key to the dark changes there. "Is that what you've done, Seamus? Given it your soul?"

A flicker of shame so brief it might have been imagined crossed the brilliant blue eyes, then Seamus tipped his head back, letting loose with a twisted, manic burst of laughter before he met Neville's eyes again, and this time his look carried all the painful force of a punch. "Ah, Auror, I gave that up on a dark spring night years ago, I did. I don't feed it on me soul, I feed it on me blood and me tears and me hate, and maybe ya don't know those things so well, but they do well enough."

The patronizing edge of his words was too much, and Neville stiffened, meeting his gaze unflinchingly and allowing the other wizard to see things deeper than he usually would ever allow, the shadows of every skeleton hidden in his own heart's closet. "Do you really think you're the only one with pain left from that year?"

"But I ain't afraid mine won't make me suitable to kiss the arses o' the same 'polite company' left us to that mess, now am I?" Seamus retorted harshly.

Neville did not back down, his voice remaining coolly in control. "From what you said before, I've got a feeling it scarcely makes you suitable to face yourself in the mirror."

"Ya really want this, Auror?!" Seamus' face had gone red again, and he jumped to his feet, throwing the knife down to stab straight through the oak leaf altar and stand, quivering, on end in the soft earth. "Ya really think you've got a set big enough?! Then fine! How d'ya block it? Ya  _don't."_

His brogue, already thicker than Neville had ever known it in their youth from having spent five years among none but his own people had dropped now to a feral growl, and the look on his face was barely human as he stood there, shoulders taut, hands fisted white-knuckle tight at his sides. "Ya  _match_ it, hit it with all the wordless, all the wandless, all the primal, all the  _animal_ force o' yer own an' blow it ta feckin' shreds, an' ta use it, ya gotta give up all attempts at controllin' anythin' an' just  _strike!"_

He laughed again, a sound so purely cruel and unhinged that even Maher drew back, his hand edging to the butt of his gun, but Seamus either didn't notice or didn't care. "Oh, there's spells from later on, with words and wand fancies what's still Irish, but  _that_ ain't what  _he'll_ be usin' while his ladies are castin'  _Tine Ardballa_ that ya can use _Cryosynthius_ 'gainst if ya can feel the meanin' past the tongue 'tis in. I'd stick with that, but ya want t' try the darkest bits? Then do an' be  _damned,_ Auror! Let it eat all the parts o' ya what ever been human, and  _titim gan eiri ort!_ "

Seamus lashed out, kicking their schematic into a scuffed and useless blur in the dirt as he crossed the circle and stepped through and out between the two other men. He took several steps towards the edge of the clearing, then stopped, looking back over his shoulder with a smile that held guilt and pride, aching grief and eager pleasure, hate and sorrow and violence and madness and just enough of something else to keep it all from falling over the line of recognition to be bearably gone. "Besides," he said tonelessly, "the last time I looked in a mirror, 'twas in the Room o' Requirement. Why would I need one when I can see everythin' what matters just by closin' me eyes?"

Then he faced the forest again, and in a few more paces, he had vanished as cleanly as if he had Apparated.

It was almost a minute before Maher spoke, and Neville didn't need to ask why he whispered. "Will he be back, ya think?"

"He will." Neville nodded hollowly. "He was one of my best friends once, and even if I can't pretend I know who the hell he is now or even if he's anywhere near his right mind, I do know that he'll be there for the fight tonight."

"If he's off his nut, what makes ya so sure?"

"Because he can't live with what he's become, and the Diabhal Dubh is how he wants to die."


	13. Brothers In Arms

"There…all healed up, Commander." Demelza smiled proudly as she tapped the backs of his hands with her wand one final time, dispelling the last of the charms that had held his fingers rigid. Cautiously, Neville flexed them one by one, making fists and then stretching them wide again. They were still stiff, sore, but they responded well enough, and the more he forced them to move, the more the lingering pain eased.

He smiled back gratefully. "Thanks, Demmy. You sure they'll hold up if I need to—"

"If anything, the bones are stronger now," she assured him. "I gave you a really heavy dose." She motioned towards the gold band he had just pulled from his pocket. "You might actually need to expand that a size or two. Maybe they're just still a little swollen, but your fingers look a little thicker to me now."

"Yeah," he nodded, finding the wedding ring indeed rather uncomfortably snug, but a quick tap of his own wand rectified it easily. "I'm sorry I gave you a hard time about it before."

"Don't mention it." Demelza waved her hand dismissively. "If I really want to be a Healer, I suppose I need to get used to difficult patients, and besides, it's close enough to the full moon that Bernie was a lot nastier than you were."

"Well, sorry for that too, on his behalf," Neville chuckled. "Though I'm glad he and Bill will be on different teams, given how territorial they get. It'll probably be useful tonight that it's getting close to their time of the month." His expression turned serious, and he reached out, clasping her shoulder gently. "What about you? Are you sure you really want to go?"

There was no hesitation as she squared her shoulders, shaking off his hand with a defiant look. "Ron and Hermione might need me, and if they don't, the rest of you idiots will. I'm going, no question. Anyway, George put Shield Charms on everything down to my knickers, and Dooley says he's giving me some kind of special vest and a helmet for Muggle weapons…it's even going to have a little red cross on it that means Muggles won't shoot you. I'll be the safest one there."

"You'd better be," he said grimly. "But don't get cocky. Keep your head down. No one expects you to fight. You're there for one reason only, and don't let that Gryffindor heroic streak get out of hand when the curses and bullets start flying. That includes if someone's down and the crossfire's hot. We only have one of you, Demmy, and I don't just mean as a Mediwitch."

"Yes, sir." She tucked her wand into her belt, leaning in to kiss him lightly on the forehead with an odd little smile. "But there's no use in telling you to take your own advice about being careful, even if there's only one of you, too, and you've got my official okay now to go figure out the last details of how you're going to wind up right back under me again."

"The way you say that, I think I almost might need to get jealous." Neville looked up at the sound of his wife's voice, the smile that had been bittersweet now fully genuine as he stood and brushed off the knees of his jeans from where he had been crouching in the dirt.

"Hannah!" He took both her hands in his, raising them to his mouth to kiss them softly and savoring the simple easiness with which his fingers laced hers. "I take it this means Harry's ready? Or were you just coming to see me?"

"The former, I'm afraid." She released his hands with a small sigh, shrugging matter-of-factly. "Demmy, they want you, too. This is for everybody, if it's okay with you, Neville."

"I was going to ask the same thing," he replied, his own tone and demeanor returned as quickly as hers to pure business. " _Does_ he have a plan?"

She seemed to think about it a moment, then nodded confidently. "A pretty good one. Well…given what we know. But I think it should work, I really do."

They crossed the clearing, and Neville scanned the over two dozen people already gathered in a rough circle around a more elaborate version of the diagram they had used earlier. Yet no matter how carefully he looked, there was no back turned to him with a long, sandy ponytail falling between strong shoulders, no profile or ducked face illuminated with a pattern of vivid blue, and he frowned. "He's not back yet, then?"

There was no need to ask who he was talking about; it hadn't been exactly subtle, and she cast him a quick glance of shared worry. "No," she admitted, "no one's seen him. Do you think –?"

"He'll be back," Neville said confidently, but inwardly, he was beginning to doubt his previous assurances. It was already five o'clock, they would barely have time to compare notes before they had to Apparate to Derry to meet up with Maher, who had already gone ahead with George to prepare their equipment and Maher's own men. If Seamus hadn't returned within the next fifteen or twenty minutes….

But it didn't matter. Neville shook his head quickly, dismissing the worrisome thoughts as he found Harry in the circle, shaking the other wizard's hand as he took his own seat next to him. "You want to go first?"

"Sure." There was still a heavy awkwardness between them, but thankfully, Harry seemed as determined as he was himself to work past it, and he cleared his throat, motioning at the sketch at their feet. "This is Bill's best guess at how things will be laid out, and Mr. Maher took a look at it before he had to go, and he said it was pretty much the same thing as you had, so that makes me feel a lot better." He glanced up briefly at the tall, red-haired man at his other shoulder. "Bill reminded us every other word that nothing was codified in these old religions, but if our two experts at least agree on the basics, I'd say that means we can at least count on the circle, the bonfire, the altar, and the prisoners tied here and here, and the details of what color the altar cloth is really don't matter."

Neville studied the layout again more carefully, wanting to be sure before he spoke. "No, it's definitely the same places Seamus had for the basics you're talking about, and he got it from Utterson.  _Maybe_ your circle's a little bigger, but that could just be a matter of scale, and like you said, we're not going for precision here."

Harry gave a surprisingly bleak murmur of a laugh. "No, that's just me and Justin."

He raised an eyebrow questioningly at this, and Harry sighed deeply, taking a long breath and running his fingers –clearly not for the first time – through his hair. "Bill, Demmy, Zach, Hannah, and the RHD will be going in with you. Not as part of your force proper, but waiting until you have them engaged, then Apparating straight into the center of the circle as close to the hostages as possible, and if he's done something to prevent that, they'll be pushing in as soon as you can make a gap in the line for them."

Harry motioned with his wand, and several pebbles inscribed with the names of the people he had just listed moved from the pile at his feet into place around the two red stones already set and marked with Ron and Hermione's names. "Hannah, Zach, and the RHD are really just there to watch Bill's back while he tries to 'pick the lock' as Kevin put it. Break whatever magic's holding them. If they absolutely need treatment before they can be moved, Demmy will be there, but unless they're bleeding to death, we need to just  _go._ "

On the surface, Harry's voice was cool and steady, perfectly businesslike, but even though Neville did not count himself as particularly close to the other young man, he had known him long enough to hear the catch in the last words, even as he moved on quickly. "The instant they're free, Bill's going to send up a flare. That's for me, Tony, Oliver, and Justin. We're all ex-Quidditch players, and that's going to matter a lot. We'll be hovering high, hopefully out of any kind of range where they could detect us, and when we get the flare, we're going to home in on it and dive like hell. I grab Hermione, Justin gets Ron, and we go right back up hopefully before anyone sees more than a blur. Thousand feet or so, then we destroy the brooms and do a mid-air side-along directly to St. Mungo's so there's no chance for them to give chase."

"What about Tony and Oliver?" Ginny asked.

"They're back-up. If we're having trouble, if one of us misses and plows, snags on a branch, gets hit…whatever. They go down with us and are ready to take over if necessary."

"Makes sense," Charlie nodded, then clapped one hand on Justin's back with an oddly apologetic look. "And I have nothing against you personally, I want you to know that, because I don't want you doing it. I want to switch."

The bright green eyes blinked in confusion behind Harry's glasses, and he tilted his head bemusedly. "Why?"

"Because Justin's okay, but in my day – which wasn't exactly all  _that_ long ago, and I still play regularly – I was  _great._ So if Ron's life is going to come down to flying stunts, I want to be the one to take that responsibility. Not to mention he's heavier than he looks, and we don't know if he'll be able to hang on or just be dead weight." Charlie pushed up his sleeve, flexing one thick arm in demonstration as he looked evenly at Justin. "You really think you could manage him and still pull off top-notch flying?"

Justin paused only a moment before shrugging off his loose outer robe, then grabbing the hem of his shirt and tugging it over his head. He wasn't as heavily built as the dragon wrangler, but the muscles of his arms and torso were still cleanly chiseled lines of obvious strength, and across the circle, Rachel let out an appreciative whistle, causing the young man to smile only half-sheepishly as he spread his arms towards Charlie. "My father may be an MP," he said calmly, "but that far from makes me soft. It wasn't an option on Macmillan's team, and it's not an option with the Aurors."

"Fair enough," Charlie allowed, but his expression was still relentlessly stubborn. "But I've got a Nimbus '06 from the Reserve –"

"Firebolt Three, old chum," Justin retorted. "And I happen to know for a fact the only other chap here with one of those is Mr. Potter, and that's because they give the lucky bastard the latest model gratis the moment it hits the air." His severe, aristocratic features softened, and he looked at Charlie with such sympathy that it bordered on simpering patronization. "I understand he's your brother, but that's just precisely why I can't agree with you on this. Don't you think you might come a bit undone if it was nasty?"

His face flushed mahogany as Charlie's chin thrust forward. "Harry's not exactly a neutral party in this either, and I don't see anyone questioning  _his_ right to –"

"I've done it before," Harry cut in. "This won't be the first time I've seen my friends hurt because of me."

There was a leaden pause, then Neville spoke up. "Not saying either way about Charlie or Justin – I'd be happy to have either of them," he said carefully, "but this isn't because of you, Harry."

"Yes it is!" Harry wheeled on him sharply, and for the first time since he had arrived, Neville saw real panic written beneath the now-cracking veneer of professionalism. "I was the one they sent first! I should have tried harder! It shouldn't have gotten this far, and if something happens to them now –"

His voice choked off, but he recovered almost immediately, his words now tumbling over each other as if scrambling to get through before he could slam shut on them again. "They shouldn't  _be_ Aurors! Ron didn't want to anymore after the war, but they joined because  _I_ did, and they're not just my friends, they're the only people who've ever been there for me in my whole life because they  _liked_ me, not because of who I was or 'cause they had to, and now some madman wants to make human sacrifices out of them because I let them follow me into this mess just like every time I've nearly gotten them killed before!"

"Harry…" Ginny had gotten to her feet, her face an exquisitely anguished mixture of shared pain and understanding as she cupped her husband's face in the palm of her hand. "I know how you feel, love, but Neville's right, it's not –"

"Ah, now ain't it a joy t'see that I ain't missed nothin'. The Aurors're at it again, I fancy? Shirts off this time, is it? Better, I 'spose, than droppin' trou, but you'll please forgive us if me hands're full."

Every head snapped around, and Harry's outburst was forgotten utterly as Naomi Russell let out a shrill, piercing shriek that was echoed in cries of horror from every throat. Neville's own jaw dropped, his stomach clenching with the urge to be suddenly, strongly sick. His mouth opened, closed again, but it was Ginny who first managed to squeeze words past the shock and revulsion that twisted her mouth. " _What_  have you –?!"

"Sorry I'm a touch late." Seamus smiled as casually as if he had strolled into an informal lunch gathering five minutes tardy, raising his arm to more clearly display the cored, hollow eye sockets and mutilated features of the severed head he was clutching, the fingers of his left hand knotted tightly in the short auburn hair. "Had someone I wanted t'say good-bye to in case I didn't get a chance later, ya understand, but he didn't seem all that eager to be found easy. Seemed to think I'd have cause to be cross with him, he did."

The face was slashed and torn beyond all hope of recognition by even the victim's closest friends, but the hair was familiar enough, and something in Seamus' eyes gave Neville an awful instinct of who the unfortunate individual had been. "Kennedy?"

"Not bad, Auror, not bad 'tall," Seamus said, his eyes widening in pleasant surprise. "And here I thought I'd maybe done him up a bit too much." He turned the head again to face him now, wagging the blood-crusted hilt of an unfamiliar knife to tap chidingly where the nose had been. "So there weren't no cause for all that howlin', now! Auror still knew ya, so ya coulda shown a bit more o' the clankers, 'specially since ya thought ya had big 'nuff to feck with us."

Neville was reluctant to move, but he felt Hannah's hand slip slowly into his, and a quick glance caught the look of tightly controlled hysteria in her eyes as she pressed against him, her lips moving slowly, fractionally nearer his ear. Her voice was scarcely audible, nothing more than formed breath. "Honey…."

Never moving his lips, never taking his eyes off of Seamus, who was now apparently engrossed in a quiet but seemingly amiable one-sided debate with the late Mr. Kennedy, Neville squeezed back in acknowledgement. "Yes?"

"I know you care about him. I know he was a very good friend. I care about him too. But he is  _not_ okay, baby. He is  _really, really_ not okay."

It was terrible. It was sick and sad and so, so wrong in so many ways, and oh, it hurt so much to see, but he couldn't help how close he came to laughing at the pure magnitude of her understatement. "I know."

" _Auror!_ Here…call it me present as an apology for the harsh things I said 'afore. _"_ Neville barely reacted in time as Seamus' arm swung, and the head was flying towards him like a gory, diabolical Quaffle, spiraling crazily through the air to land with a dull thud at his feet as he jumped back, a few drops of blood still spattering his shoes.

It had barely rolled to a halt before Bernard was on his feet, kicking it away with a cry of disgust. "What the  _fuck_ is wrong with you, Finnigan!?"

The blue eyes blinked serenely as Seamus wiped his sodden hands on his already-stained shirt. "Ya can't say ya weren't feelin' much o' the same yourself at him betrayin' us now. If's I recall, ya said ya wanted to tear him limb from feckin' limb with bare hands and teeth, so maybe we's ought ask what's wrong with ya, then?"

"I  _know_ what's wrong with me!" Bernard growled. "But I've still got enough control over myself that I know the difference between what you say and what you do."

"Well," Seamus shrugged, "'Tis neither here nor there. Deed's done, and the sun's movin' on without us, it is…ya ready to go, or need's I give ya a bit longer to work out whatever ya were fussin' on?"

"No." Charlie stepped forward, his face pale beneath the freckled tan as he carefully avoided looking at the head that now lay face-down in the dirt at the edge of the clearing. "I think we've pretty much covered it. Neville? Harry? You think we're good to go?" He turned to them, and Neville saw him mouth silently but very clearly:  _Please say yes. Other stuff later. Say yes._

"Absolutely!" Harry nodded so fervently that his glasses slipped down to the end of his nose. "We were just wrapping up."

"That's right," Neville agreed. "It wasn't even a fuss. Harry was just saying how much he wants to see this done right because his friends mean so much to him."

Seamus snorted skeptically, but then he just shrugged again as he wandered over to where his wolf's-head knife still stabbed into the dirt, pulling it free and tossing aside the other blade as he re-sheathed his own. Then he looked up at Neville with a bright, boyish grin that was so perfectly excited and innocently happy that it made every hair on the back of his neck stand on end. "Then I'll be seein' ya in Derry, I will, and oh, Fearless Leader, won't we have the grandest time o' it tonight? There's somethin' so sweet that it'll all come full circle on the anniversary. Neat and tidy's a pretty Christmas package! Ah, but I wish the sun'd set already, truth I do!"

And with one last, sparkling smile, he turned on the spot and vanished into thin air.

The crack of his Apparition echoed and faded, and silence hung over the clearing for what seemed a very long time before Kevin cleared his throat. "Ya know, I just wanted to say that if I live t'mornin', I ain't never tellin' a soul what I seen, and that's me oath. None the magic, none the wizardin' world, none the lot…and that's for me boys, too."

"Wait a second…" Oliver shook his head quickly as he got to his feet, raising his hands appealingly. "You really don't have to worry that anyone here's going to start cutting off heads if you –"

"No, no, Ollie, me lad," Kevin corrected him, his face ashen, "I've just decided that it's all so much the better if I'm twice 'round the twist…but I'd like to keep that in me pocket, if ya don't mind, for I don't fancy me coats with the sleeves that long."

"Sounds fair to me," Jimmy murmured dazedly. "So…uh…Derry, then? Figure out the rest there? I don't really like the idea of keeping Seamus waiting."

"Right," Neville agreed quietly, "I'd hate to think what he'd do if he got bored

OOO

At six foot one, Neville was a tall man, not often accustomed to having to look up at others, but this man towered over him by nearly half a head, and he estimated the gap between them further to be no less than a hundred pounds as the bear-like paws closed eagerly over his hand, crushing down so exuberantly that he was grateful for every bit of the reinforced strength Demelza said was in his fingers. Even still, he couldn't help wincing, and the huge Muggle roared with laughter, releasing one hand to clap down on his shoulder with staggering force. "Thought Aiden said ya were a wizard, lad?"

"Wizard, yeah," Neville gasped, flexing his fingers cautiously to make sure they were all still attached after his hand was finally freed. "We're still made of the same stuff you are, though." He paused, his eyes running over the tree-trunk limbs so heavily flocked in red-gold curls that he couldn't help being somewhat reminded of an orangutan. "Well…mostly," he amended with a self-effacing smile. "You seem to be made of a lot more of it."

"Ah, always been a healthy boy, I have," his blue-grey eyes sparkled pleasantly from his round, boyish face as he snapped to attention and gave a neat salute. "Darragh Tuohy, formerly o' Her Majesty's Billyminge 'afore I came to me senses, now proud soldier o' Ireland and your quartermaster for this fine madness."

"A pleasure. I'm Neville Longbottom: I'll be leading the offense. And I'd like to introduce Harry Potter – he's commanding the hostage retrieval." He motioned to each of the other wizards as he introduced them, carefully trying to phrase each introduction to avoid another flare-up of the tensions between the hastily assembled group. "Bill Weasley; professional Curse-Breaker. Kevin Dooley has brought in another paramilitary group of his own to boost our numbers…and I think you've already met Seamus Finnigan, our cultural expert."

"That I have, aye, that I have." Tuohy reached down and ruffled Seamus' hair with a deep, guffawing laugh, and Neville winced, braced for the explosion. "Spitfire, aincha? Reckon the last deed for a fair number o' folk's been underestimatin' ya for bein' little 'nuff to curl up in me left boot, or'm I wrong?"

"Oh, that'd be quite correct," Seamus agreed smoothly, then out of nowhere, the knife had appeared in his hand, and he was suddenly beneath Tuhoy's guard, the tip of the blade resting lightly against the base of the giant's ribs. "Like so's, in fact."

There was a collective held breath, then Seamus took a step back, slipping the knife back into its sheath without a flicker of expression ever having crossed his face as he scanned over the numerous cardboard boxes arrayed in the garage of the auto repair shop where the RIRA had their headquarters. "This'll be for us, then?"

Tuhoy looked somewhat rattled, but he collected himself quickly, nodding as the jovial demeanor returned. "Boots and uniforms there. Sizes all jumbled up, so you'll have to hunt a bit to find what fits ya, and the ladies'll need to make do same's the lads. Do with your own for underdainties or go without. Radios there, and don't be messin' with the dials for Miles' already set the frequencies and he gets damned pissy if ya feck with his techy toys. Holsters there, popguns in that one, but we'll all have to be payin' a visit to Oscar 'fore we go, seen's he's got the blanks for ya."

Rachel raised her hand, casting a dubious look around the cramped space. "Where can the women change?"

"Right here'f ya want to be liftin' morale, lovely," Tuhoy winked, but Rachel gave him a primly disgusted look, putting her hands on her hips.

"I think morale is fine."

"Then ya can take turns in the jakes," he motioned towards a small door in one corner decorated with abundant graffiti and a motionless Muggle calendar displaying a naked woman of extremely dubious physical proportions. "Pardon if it ain't sparklin', but we don't worry over it too much."

Rachel exchanged a look with Hannah, and he distinctly saw his wife's lips form the word  _Scourgify_ to a nod of profound agreement. Ginny, however, had already emerged from the first box with an armful of clothing, and she tapped her nose with her wand, producing a Bubble-Head charm before she opened the door by magic. She hesitated at the threshold, her voice oddly distorted by the charm. "Oh, dear Merlin, I think the toilet just said something."

Harry chuckled, glancing over her shoulder and giving a sympathetic shudder before patting his wife comfortingly on the arm. "You're an Auror, Gin, and you survived six brothers. You can do this."

The withering glare she shot him was only half-joking. "Then you change in there."

"Six years of Quidditch and six months in barracks for AT." Harry shrugged. "I'm just fine changing with the rest of the guys, thanks."

"We'll turn our backs, Ginny, we promise," Naomi called out. "Contrary to their delusional beliefs, we're not just dying here to see all their cute little Supersorcerer underpants." She was looking directly at Jimmy as she said this, and Neville had to remind himself fiercely that it was unbecoming for a leader to giggle on the eve of battle as he saw the young man's jaw drop as a vivid pink flush burst across his face.

"Well, okay then." Ginny took another deep breath, fluttering the bubble around her mouth before she closed her eyes and stepped in. The door closed behind her, but they could still hear the stream of oaths and imprecations that promptly began to arise against the state of the interior. Neville shook his head, as ever surprised that he could still, after ten years of friendship, be startled by Ginny's astonishing vocabulary in that regard.

"Ya seem to have things well at hand, then," Tuhoy said, brushing his hands together with a satisfied noise. "I'll be goin' unlessn's ya have any more questions, be puttin' things together for ours."

"Just one," Norman Forrest looked up from where he had knelt beside the box of uniforms, holding one up as he frowned bemusedly. "These are  _American_  army uniforms."

Tuhoy's grin broadened, and he winked down at the wizard. "Well what else're ya gonna get's cheap on Ebay?" He laughed again at the obviously deepened confusion his answer had produced, then snapped them a second salute. "Aiden said t'tell ya we'll be 'semblin' at half-past, so ya've 'bout fifteen minutes. Cla!"

Neville watched him go, then turned as he felt a tap on his shoulder. It was Charlie, holding out a pair of trousers and an olive green t-shirt. "Hannah told me what sizes," he said, then hesitated as Neville began to strip off. "Look, uh…I don't mean to be a pain in the arse about this, but I really need your back-up on this thing with Justin. I know you don't have any siblings, but is there any way you can try to make yourself understand what it would be like if you –"

"I  _do_  understand," he sighed.  _"_ As well as I ever can, that is. But the more I think about this, Charlie, the more I'm afraid I have to side with Harry and Justin on this one. I've seen siblings in battle now, and no offense, but you haven't. All the brothers and sisters who were going to watch each other die already had. And I know you lost Fred that night, but you didn't know about that until after the fact. I've seen what happens, and it's some of the worst pain anyone should never have to feel…and it makes people mental. I'm sorry. I think Justin's the right choice, and I'd say Bill should be off too, but with his credentials, we have no choice there."

"But –"

" _No,"_ he paused, tugging the t-shirt on over his head, then smiled with as much sympathy as he could. "That's my final word on it, Charlie. I'm sorry. You want to help Ron, we'll need you as a scout and a fighter, and if you can handle dragons, I know you'll be a real nightmare for the human monsters we'll be dealing with tonight."

The protest was clearly on the tip of his tongue, then Charlie stopped, frowning. " _Scout?"_

"It's…oh, hell, we never go a chance to go over that, did we?" Neville sat down on the cold concrete and began to unlace his shoes as he explained. "We're going to be using a handful of you guys as scouts so that we can  _find_ the Diabhal Dubh before we split off. I've already gone over my side of the whole thing with Harry, and he's good with it, he just hadn't finalized his stuff yet at that point. Maher knows, and Kevin, but I'll catch the rest of you up when we're all equipped. For now, though, you've got to get ready."

The brown eyes were burning with unspoken anger, but to his relief, there was no further argument as Charlie stalked off to where a thick knot of witches and wizards had formed around the various boxes, checking labels and comparing sizes as they hurried to find everything they needed. Ginny was out now, Naomi having taken her place, and the fatigues hung rather loosely on her slender form, making her look as if she were dressed in her husband's borrowed clothes. It was adorable, to be honest, but there was nothing cute about the grim look on her face as she followed Seamus' lead in clipping the radio to her waistband, the long, coiled cord threading up to an earpiece and microphone that she tucked snugly into her long hair.

He was dressed now, and he was pleased to see that his wife had been right about the sizes, the Muggle uniform fitting him as if it had been tailored, and he crossed over to the box of boots, suddenly wondering whether there was any relation between the sizes of footwear in wizarding England and the American military. This did not seem likely given that most of the others gathered there were finding their boots by holding them up to their own shoes for comparison, and Neville had just turned back to grab one of his discarded trainers to do the same when he heard Harry call his name.

He looked up, surprised to see that the other man was already fully outfitted, down to the butt of the gun protruding menacingly from beneath the open shirt of his fatigues. "Can I have a word with you?"

"Is this about Charlie?" he frowned.

"No…I just –" Harry waved a hand, motioning Neville to go on with his preparations as he continued. "I was kind of an idiot earlier, and I wanted to apologize. We don't need to be tip-toeing around each other right now, and I'm willing to swallow a little pride if it means we're not worrying about anything other than what we're going up against."

"That makes two of us, actually." Neville grimaced ruefully as he began to dig through the pile of boots, holding them up one after the other against the sole of the trainer before discarding them. "I wasn't exactly a paragon of tact myself. I had no right to say anything about what you were doing while we were at Hogwarts. I wasn't there, and I'm sorry."

"No, you were right." The words clearly didn't come easily, but Harry swallowed hard, meeting Neville's eyes without flinching. "I  _did_ know the whole wizarding world was at war, that they were depending on me, and I choked. That's all there is to it. I was terrified at the idea of that kind of responsibility, so I tried to make it all about Dumbledore, and when I found out he was just as human as anyone else, that meant it was back to me. My guts, my decisions, even the decision if I was going to trust  _his_ decisions…and I started looking for loopholes and special extra magic and anything that would mean I didn't  _really_ have to face him, even though in the end, that's all it was. Me and him."

Neville blinked, startled at the admission. "But what about the Horcruxes, the wands, all the –"

"The Horcruxes were definitely real. That much I'm completely certain of, and I'm still grateful to you for getting Nagini, Neville. That was an amazing act of bravery, and I'll never forget it. But the wands…" Harry shrugged, and he was reluctant to look away even though he had to in order to get the laces of the boots he had found through their eyelets. "I don't know, really. It made a lot of sense at the time, all caught up in the moment, but the more I look back, the more I think that the Elder Wand was just a masterpiece of wandcraft – a really perfectly made wand that channeled magic really well, but nothing more special than that – and that the  _real_ power that Dumbledore knew it had was to rattle Riddle and give me confidence. And that's what mattered in the end…that my  _Expelliarmus_ was just that fraction faster and more confident than his  _Avada Kedavra._ That I  _believed_ my spell would work and he  _hoped_ his would."

"Then you mean," Neville found himself whispering, and he could  _feel_ the color drain from his face. "It was just…a duel. You just…beat him."

Harry's head sagged, and he nodded, his shoulders drawing in as if he expected to be struck for his confession. "I'm sorry. I should have admitted it earlier. I should have admitted it to the whole world, but I guess I've been too much of a coward. It's not about the celebrity, I just…I don't know. Maybe I don't want more people looking at me the way I deserve."

"That's nonsense!" he exclaimed. "Harry, if you think I don't respect you now because it wasn't all kinds of elaborate Wand Lore nonsense… _no!_ Hell, I've never respected you more! Do you realize what you're saying, mate? You took on Riddle with nothing more than your own guts and you  _still_ beat him. The rest of it…yeah, okay, I'll admit that there'll always probably be some anger about that year. But that's a lot of things, not just you, and I  _know_ how lonely it can be, how terrifying to have people depend on you. The only thing that kept me going sometimes was that they were watching me every day. I had no right to pretend I knew what I'd have done if I were off on my own with just a couple of friends."

"You'd have fought." Harry said bluntly. "You've never been the brooding type."

"Maybe not," Neville shrugged, crossing now to collect his own radio and shoulder holster. "But that doesn't mean I'd have done any better. I'd just have done  _differently,_ and in the end, I'm glad it was you, because at least brooding and freezing up kept you alive. I'd have gotten myself killed, and that's the truth. Came close enough too many times as it was with the D.A."

"Is it true?" Harry asked. "I've wanted to ask for years, but there's never seemed like a good opportunity. Did you really get sentenced to death by the Wizengamot for impersonating a Death Eater?"

"True," he nodded, tucking the microphone assembly behind his ear. "And perfect case in point. Wands, horcruxes, none of it would have mattered. I'd have done myself in without Riddle's help." Making a last check to ensure that he had transferred everything from the pockets of his jeans to his new uniform, he smiled at Harry with more genuine understanding than he had ever really felt for the other young man whose destiny had been so oddly woven with his since before they were even born. "We were all kids, Harry. No one can look back now and say there's nothing they'd have done differently, but it all worked out as okay as I suppose a war ever can…and if I were Ron or Hermione, I'd feel a lot better knowing you were on your way, because you  _are_ a hero, and I have no doubt that you're going to make the Diabhal Dubh as sorry he messed with us as you did his boss."

"No." Harry shook his head, then pulled his wand from his belt, raising it in salute as he drew his own shoulders back proudly. " _We_ are."


	14. Into The Woods

"No. This is where I'm drawing the line. I will never, never fight in a mask." Jimmy shook his head stubbornly, shoving the black woolen balaclava back into the hands of the man who was holding it out to him.

The young RIRA fighter frowned bemusedly, extending it again. "You'll not be hard to mistake, darlin'. Not with your face."

"I'm not ashamed of my scars, if that's what you're getting at," Jimmy's jaw was set, his soft blue eyes flinty. "One of the nastiest witches in our world tried to take my head off, and I mostly ducked it. But even if I was, I wouldn't do it.  _They_ wear masks, not us."

Kevin snorted derisively, his arms crossed. "And  _they_ use Chopsticks and wear dresses, too. O' all the things to get feckin' picky over –"

"No, Jimmy's right, we're not wearing them." Neville stepped forward, tossing the one he himself had been given down into the cardboard box on the floor of the garage. "But actually, even though I agree with him and understand why he's saying it, it's not about separating ourselves from them." He glanced around, catching the eyes of his fellow wizarding leaders in this; Seamus, Harry, and Bill. "We just can't afford not to know who's who in our own."

"Lovely, that," Maher sneered, pulling his balaclava down over his face as he spoke, "but doncha think that if ya fought them before, they'll be knowin' well who to pick and choose for shootin' down?"

"Maybe," Harry allowed. "A few of them might recognize Neville or Ginny, but I'll be in and out too fast, and I'm the  _most_  recognizable, and most of the D.A. has changed a lot as they've grown up, but I'm still with Neville on this. Even in masks, it would be easy enough to figure out who the leaders are, so it doesn't save them being targets, and especially since we're working with a mixed group and deliberately blurring our differences, we all need to know who we can turn to for a Shield Charm or who knows how to shoot a gun."

"And if just you guys wear them," Ginny plucked at the sleeve of her baggy fatigues, "There's no point in all this."

"Fine! Ain't no time be arguin' anyway." Maher rolled his eyes and yanked off the mask, tossing it away. "Everyone clear on the guns?"

"Don't point them directly at anyone you don't want to hurt at close range," Hannah recited dutifully. "They're not real bullets, but they can burn and even blind if you shoot someone in the face." Her smile turned dark. "Which I might use if it comes to it, but I'll remember not to do it to my friends by accident."

"Lovely lass, there," Tuhoy chuckled, then scanned across the assembled witches and wizards, pointing to Bernard seemingly at random. "Give us a show, will ya?"

His dark brows drawn tightly together in concentration, Bernard took a deep breath and pulled the pistol from its holster beneath his open shirt. He held it as though it were a strange and dangerous animal, but his grip on the handle was firm nonetheless as he pulled back the slide along the top with his other hand. "Chamber a round. Only have to do this the first time. We don't get extra magazines, so there's only fifteen shots."

Tuhoy nodded in approval, and Bernard wrapped both hands around the grip now, raising it to eye level and turning to point it towards the wall of the garage behind him and away from the others. "Line up the sights, which are the notched bits, but don't worry about that too much, because we're not actually firing. It just needs to look right. Brace your shoulders for the kick, but don't lock your elbows. Squeeze your hands, don't  _pull_ the trigger, and  _bang._ Big noise, big light, and be ready for it to jump back and up in your hands and to jerk really hard. _"_

"Regular parrot, ya are, Bernie," Seamus grinned. "Just don't go playin' with it and don't pick up any ya see lyin' round. 'Tis a Glock 17, and that's a sweet little gun, but all the safety's 'gainst her goin' off in your pocket, so if ya squeeze the trigger, it'll be the hard way o' learnin' who dropped it."

"Wait a minute, I'm starting to feel left out here." George stepped forward, raising his wand as he made an exaggeratedly wounded face. "We've taken everything you've taught us to heart, and you're not even impressed with my brilliant craftsmanship and being bestowed the secrets of the magical arts by a true genius in jinxcraft? I mean, really, our esteemed leaders just wanted something that would sparkle and pop a bit."

Maher and Kevin exchanged a look of rare solidarity, then Kevin's eyes narrowed as he pointed to the row of almost thirty wands on the narrow workbench, each a precise replica of George's own. "Ya've not told us naught 'bout them, and ya said ya couldn't give us magic, ya did. Thought they were just props, somethin' t'wave round like fairies."

"Oh, my dear, dear fellow," George announced with a bow, "I am capable of so much more than that. You wound me."

Neville distinctly heard Maher mutter something under his breath that sounded quite like it agreed with the concept of wounding George if he didn't stop grandstanding, and he cleared his throat loudly. "Just show them, please? The sun's already starting to go down, and we still have to Apparate and send out the scouts to find where exactly they actually are."

"Right." The bright eyes fell serious with a suddenness that seemed almost unnatural, and he conjured a handkerchief from thin air, using it to shield his hand as he picked up the first wand in the line, holding it only with the tips of his fingers. "It's activated by rhythm. Hold it good and tight, and your own pulse will do the same thing as 'chambering a round.'"

Tuhoy was gazing at the thin wooden spindle with a childlike fascination, leaning forward eagerly. "And to fire it?"

"Watch carefully, gentlemen." George plucked the handkerchief away with his other hand, clutching the handle tightly now, then turned to face the wall just as Bernard had. "Raise the tip straight up, then flick it down hard, like a fishing pole, snapping your wrist good and sharp." He demonstrated the movement, and there was a loud  _bang_ , a flare of sparks erupted from the end of the wand, and the wall rattled precariously as if an unseen rhinoceros had barreled into it.

Neville jumped back, startled and more than a little impressed at the power of the magic, but every Muggle jaw was on the floor in awe as they stared incredulously at the red-haired wizard. "Ya…holy  _shite!"_ Kevin whispered. "And  _we_ can do that?"

"You have one spell, one spell only," George cautioned, setting the weapon back down on the workbench as he shook an admonishing finger at them. " _Impedimenta._ That's it. Think of it like a shock wave, something that can knock an enemy off their feet. Won't work if you don't do the movement right, and it'll get progressively weaker each time you use it until the charm wears off, and then it  _is_ just a prop, so don't use it unless you really need to."

"Still…." Maher's eyes were gleaming with a mixture of reverence and greed as he picked up his new wand and ran it slowly between his fingers. "How many rounds?"

"Two,  _maybe_  three full-strength. Then it tapers off, and I'm honestly not sure how many you'll get before it's gone." For the first time, George looked uncertain as he shrugged. "I haven't had time to really test them properly, to be honest. The charm to 'load' it with an Impedimenta was meant for Anti-Intruder diaries, and the Activation Charms were for products that could be used by Squibs or kids who hadn't gotten their magic yet, but I've never combined them before."

"The feck ya  _do_ , Georgie-boy?" Tuhoy tucked his own new wand into his belt as he saw the wizards carrying theirs, but like the other Muggles who had been brave enough to touch them, he seemed more than a little afraid of the benign-looking object. "Ya like Q or somethin'? Three clicks on the pen and blow us t'feckin' kingdom come, this is."

"He's got a joke shop, actually," Charlie offered, smiling at his brother in fond exasperation. "Pathetic thing for a grown man to do with his life, I know – gum that makes you sing for the next two hours, compacts that scream bloody murder when a witch checks her lipstick…but what's  _really_ disgusting is the amount of money he makes at it. We should all be so juvenile."

"Well there's no amount of gold that'll be able to buy Ron and Hermione's lives back," Harry interjected, meeting Neville's eyes as he scooped up an armload of the wands and began passing them out to the Muggles who hadn't taken them yet. "Here. Once everyone has these, we need to group up and go. If George's spells work, they work, if they don't, they don't. Just watch where you point and flick. Knock me off my broom and I  _know_  I'll be able to make you wish you hadn't."

"Same goes for the rest of us," Neville agreed, taking the remaining wands and helping Harry pass them out until they were all tucked neatly if reluctantly into belts and boot-tops. "You've all been warned what side-along Apparition will feel like. It won't  _hurt_ , but DO NOT LET GO. If you manage to pry away from us, you could literally wind up spread across the landscape from here to there in chunks of yourself."

He crossed the room to the RIRA leader, taking the other man firmly by the upper arm as he gave a final check of his strangely cobbled-together army. It was all so surreal, this mix of Muggle and magical, formal military trappings on three groups that were little more than gangs each in their own way and two of whom were active and mortal enemies. By all rights, they shouldn't even know one another's names, but here they were, ready to fight alongside each other, watch each other's backs, maybe even die for each other.

There was an undercurrent of unity in the shared fear of their greater enemy, and the heartless necessity of it was eloquently expressed in the grim uniformity of their appearance. If you looked, you could still note that the Muggles carried additional ammunition, that many of them had larger, crueler guns called assault rifles slung over their backs, that the wizards' wands were individual and had the look of objects well cared-for but still heavily used, but on the surface, they were all the same. From black boots to the camouflage uniforms to the bandannas that had been wrapped around golden and copper-bright hair, they were soldiers without armies, warriors whether or not the world knew they were at war.

Neville took a deep breath, watching as Harry took his own place at Kevin's side, then nodded tersely. "Forest at Druim Cett. Bill says the east symbolizes new beginnings, so we're coming in on the far western side. Harry and I first, the rest of you follow. Only take two if you're really comfortable in your Apparition skills, otherwise, we'll be back for anyone who doesn't come in the first round. Any questions before we move out?"

Ginny hesitated a moment, then raised her hand. "In all fairness, as one of the scouts, is there a backup plan if we don't find them?"

He could see Harry start to answer, but Seamus interrupted with a low, strangely mournful chuckle. "Don't be fearin' that. We'll find him. Sure's death we will."

"What makes you so sure?" The question was a challenge, but she spoke with such genuine worry for her brother's safety behind it that even with his increasing volatility, Seamus wasn't offended. Instead he simply looked away out the small, dirt-crusted window at the sky that was now beginning to flush vividly at the horizon, his blue eyes looking somewhere so deeply shadowed and so far away that Neville shivered.

"Because once I get a bit nearer, all I need's do's follow the darkness. It'll lead me to him, for sure 'nuff, Ginny, can't ya smell it?" His eyes closed, and he drew in a deep, almost hungry breath, holding it a moment before letting it out in a sigh. "Evil like smoke on the air."

OOO

He felt it the moment he appeared. It was there before the Apparition had even faded, crawling over flesh still not fully solid and his own again, stabbing him in pinprick gooseflesh and bringing every hair on end. Neville gasped, feeling the air suck too cold between his teeth as he whirled, shoving Maher away and snatching out his wand in a movement so fast that it seemed only the continuation of the turn which had brought him there.

His heart was pounding so loudly in his ears that it seemed impossible he could hear beyond it, but the  _crack_ of Harry's Apparition almost on top of his and the tiny, ominous snap of the slide on Maher's gun being drawn back were like cannon blasts. Every muscle was tense, adrenaline bitter on the back of his tongue, and he continued to rotate slowly, his eyes peeling the new surroundings for the source of this sudden, terrible threat.

Nothing. It was a forest, exactly as he had expected. Different from the ones he was accustomed to in England, true, but the more vivid greens and the wilder look of this land was not nearly enough to account for his reaction. He tried to take a breath, to calm himself, tell himself it was nothing, that there was no one there, no enemy waiting in ambush, but his racing pulse refused to slow, and his instincts screamed argument against the protests of his rational mind.

_The shadows are too dark!_

It's always dim in a forest.

_Something moved!_

No it didn't, that was your own shadow.

_They're HERE!_

No, they're not. They're somewhere to the east.

_SOMETHING'S HERE! Something BAD! BAD MAGIC!_

I know.

Nor was it just him. Harry was poised on the balls of his feet, his own wand jerking from tree to tree in search of a target, and the two Muggle enemies were joined back-to back, weapons gripped tight and raised, nostrils flared and eyes gleaming circles of white alarm below brows already beaded with sweat.

Harry's glasses flashed in the slanting sunset light as he glanced at Neville, jerking his head towards the others. Instantly understanding the unspoken suggestion, he drew in against the other wizard's back, and although it should have eased the fear to have a fellow Auror covering his blindside now, it didn't. Not at all.

"Neville?" Harry's voice was a tight whisper, but he seemed equally confused by his own reaction.

"Yeah?"

"Do you remember what he felt like? Riddle? You're the only other person I know who got close to him that way."

Neville frowned, licking his lips as if it could bring the moisture back to his arid mouth. "What way?"

"As an enemy, not a follower. You were what? Three feet away for a while there?"

Ridiculously, given their situation, he actually thought back to that long-ago dawn confrontation, then shook his head. "Four, maybe five. Got within arm's length with the Sword, but that was a second,  _maybe_."

"But it felt like this?"

"Yes." And now that he said it, he knew it was true, though that didn't make it any easier. It had been a lesser sensation then, buried under so much hate and anger and hope and fear and adrenaline cascading from a thousand other sources that this shade of darkness had mattered no more than the broken ribs had against the night's other injuries when the evil wizard had flung him across the battlefield. But it had been there nonetheless, and it was exactly the same, the same permeating miasma of pure, soulless, irredeemable  _wrong_ , and oh… " _Shit,_ Harry, if  _Riddle…"_

"Do you think he's back? That maybe we didn't get them all? What if we missed a Horcrux, Neville? What if he's stronger than ever? Because this feels like him, it really does." He could feel Harry's shoulders tense against his back, and it took everything he had to fight the urge to catch that note of panic and join it tenfold.

"No." He spoke as firmly as he could make himself, and was shocked to hear the confidence so much stronger than he actually felt. "Riddle's gone. Forever. We both know that. This is something else, but it's not here. I feel it worst when I'm facing away from the sunset, and at first I thought it was because that's darker, but -- _"_

"You're right," Harry admitted, still in a whisper, but there was an edge of relief now, of sanity slowly seeping back. "It's coming from that way. We should get the others here. Send the all-clear."

"Feck the all-clear!" Kevin spat, his voice high, thin despite himself. "Somethin's feckin' watchin' us, 'tis!"

"I know it feels that way, but –" Neville began, but Kevin cut him off sharply.

"I ain't talkin' no  _feelin',_ ya feckin' Peeler! I  _saw sommat,_ and it weren't nothin' off the bleedin' Discovery Channel, neither!" He jabbed the gun towards the underbrush, and Neville hadn't even had time to register the disturbing new information before Harry's arm lashed out, casting a bright burst of white light into the deepening shadows.

" _Hominum Revelio!"_ All four men held their breath, but the light did not return, and Harry slowly lowered his wand, though he kept it ready. "Probably a trick of the light."

"Call them  _now,_ " Maher's face was ashen, but his words were the sharp bark of authority. "We knew we'd be 'gainst demons, we did, and 'taint no time to piss down our legs because there's 'zactly the evil we knew we was lookin' for." His eyes flashed towards Neville with what almost seemed amusement. "Though I fancy Finnigan were right, ya say? We can  _all_ smell't now. And boy –" he nodded his head to Harry now, who frowned.

"Don't call me –"

"I'll call ya me bitch'f I please, and on your knees ya'll thank me, so shut it." Maher snapped. "And don't ya be sayin' a word 'bout it feelin' like that Riddle bastard when the rest get here. I've seen what thatun means t'ya."

Neville blinked bemusedly at the RIRA leader, curiosity managing to penetrate even the clawing alarm still clenching his chest. "How the hell can you stay so  _calm?"_

Maher tugged at the collar of his t-shirt, pulling it aside to reveal what looked like a beaded necklace tattooed around his neck. "If this ain't the valley o' the shadow o' death, I don't know rightly what is. And my God kicked the Diabhal feckin' Dubh's pagan arse back to hell once, he did." He glanced at Kevin, his mouth twisting in a mocking smirk. "But why's a good Proddy boy lookin' so scared, ifn's you're so sure you're washed in the blood o' the lamb and not just the Irish?"

"I ain't fearin' no evil neither, I were just taken a bit off't, I were, and don't ya be goin' like ya weren't same." Kevin shot back fiercely. "Besides, I don't need go lickin' up his Mam's cunt to get meself heard."

"Ah, no, ya'd prefer be lappin' the pissflaps o' that wrinkled old bint in Buckingham, now wouldn't –"

They were both interrupted, leaping back in shock as a brilliant silver stag shoved between them to gallop into the forest beyond, and Neville turned at the same time to see Harry standing there, his wand still raised from casting the Patronus. "I don't give a damn who you're licking," he said coolly. "Personally, I prefer my wife, but right now, I've sent for the others, so shouldn't we be forming a perimeter,  _especially_ if Kevin's right about seeing something out there?"

The foreboding was still strong, but with something else to focus on, Neville found that it was possible to work past it as he helped Harry secure the immediate area with layers of protective charms and hexes. Maher had continued to stare menacingly at Kevin for nearly a full minute, but now he had gotten to his knees, passing his hand over his forehead, shoulders, and chest before beginning to mutter what seemed like incantations of his own, his eyes closed and his gun resting loosely across his lap. It was strange, even rather fascinating, but he spared neither the time to argue nor really watch. Besides, who was he to say that they didn't need all the help they could get right now, _whatever_  the source.

Kevin, meanwhile, seemed to be taking a far more direct approach. He had unslung the assault rifle from his back and was walking along behind Harry, using the long barrel to prod apart the bushes and vines, push away hanging branches, and part thick clusters of leaves. Whatever he was looking for, clearly enough, would not live long if he found it, although Neville hoped silently that no innocent woodland creature would pick this extremely unwise moment to show itself. A gunshot would announce their presence with a surety they simply could not afford.

Thankfully, the Muggles had learned now to expect the loud cracks of Apparition, and though Kevin wheeled and Maher leapt to his feet – and though both wizards were ready to block them – neither opened fire as the first of their comrades began to appear. Neville didn't know what message had been carried with Harry's Patronus, but it had obviously been a warning of some kind as well as a summons, because although the fear was there, carved instantly into every face, there was very little shock, and for that he was grateful.

His mouth opened to greet them, but just then Tuhoy let out a roar of pain and shock like a wounded bull, yanking away from Bill as he clutched at his arm as if burned. As he staggered back, eyes huge, Neville saw that his sleeve was torn – no,  _shredded_ – the fingers of his other hand slicked red, and as his incredulous stare passed beyond the RIRA quartermaster to Bill himself, a new kind of terror caught him.

Bill was hunched forward, his arms tucked back like a wrestler, fingers crooked and tight, and the nails that were usually bitten into near nonexistence were talons now, heavy and gleaming. His eyes had changed from blue to gold, the scars a livid purple across his face, and as his lips drew back in a low, inhuman growl, they exposed canines too long and sharp for any man. He wasn't looking at Tuhoy, but somewhere beyond him, and as he heard another low rumble from behind him, Neville knew instantly, awfully that it was Bernard who held the Curse-Breaker's attention so raptly.

There was a sudden movement, a swirl of bright red hair, and for a moment, he thought Bill had sprung, but it was Charlie, and he had clamped his brother's arms behind him in an iron hold, his own eyes blazing almost as fiercely. "Somebody get Bernie!" he shouted. "And for the love of Merlin,  _don't let him bite you!"_

The words galvanized the others just in time, and no less than a dozen hands grabbed the other young man at the very moment he leapt forward. There was a brief struggle, then he was down, pinned beneath three very solidly built Muggles who were sitting pragmatically on his back as six wands pointed directly into his face. Charlie himself seemed to be barely managing to control his own captive, his mouth actually brushing Bill's ear as he spoke with a strange mixture of pleading compassion and harsh authority. "Get control of yourself! It's not even the moon yet! You're a human being, dammit! You're my  _brother_! You don't want to hurt him, you don't want to hurt me! It's me, it's Charlie…c'mon! You know me! You know  _yourself!_ William Arthur Weasley. You've got a wife, a beautiful little girl, a baby boy…remember?"

For a moment, it seemed to be working. The expression of mindless rage softened a little, and his voice sounded hesitant, almost human again. "Dom…."

"That's right!" Charlie said quickly. "Think about them, Bill! Fleur's probably thinking about you right now, and Vicky's probably drawn another six pictures that we'll all pretend look like something, and I bet Dom's gonna start walking any  _day_ now, and you don't want to miss that, do you, bro?"

The moment had passed. Bill let out a tremendous roar, arching backward so strongly that he broke Charlie's hold and flung him to the ground. Too fast to see, he had turned and attacked, and his mouth was an inch from the other man's freckled throat when a blast from Charlie's wand threw him back, unconscious before he hit the forest floor.

To Neville's amazement, Charlie didn't even seem rattled as he got to his feet, pushing back his fringe from his eyes as he shook his head sadly down at Bill's still, crumpled form. "I didn't want to do that, I'm sorry. But there's no choice. And for good measure…." Sighing, he looked up and waved his wand at Bernard as well, knocking him limply insensate beneath the others.

"What was  _that_ all about?" Ginny demanded. "It's not the full moon, and Bill's  _not_  –"

"He's  _infected_ , Ginny." Charlie said brusquely. "It's not as bad as it could be, but there's some major dark magic in his body – Bernie's too – and this place is  _throbbing_ with it. And if it gets worse, we could be looking at a full transformation for both of them." He looked at Harry in deep concern. "How's the curse scar, Potter?"

"It's okay," Harry replied carefully, touching the lightning-shaped mark on his forehead as if he needed to make absolutely sure. "But that's always been tied into Riddle, no one else."

"Mine's killing me," Jimmy offered, and sure enough, his face was as badly swollen as if the wound was fresh again, his words slightly distorted by the puffy flesh at the edge of his mouth.

 _Mine too._ Mandy's voice was fainter than usual, but the pain could still be heard even in the projection, and there was a faint but worrisome red blotch on the bandages she still wore at her throat over the wounds there that could never heal.

"This is not good," Neville bit his lip, crossing his arms as he tried to think clearly, to separate the genuine worries from the dark magic that made everything so much more hopeless. "Mine were healed by the Sorting Hat, so I'm guessing that's why I'm not feeling it, but if it's this bad that far off, then once we get close enough to fight, I'm afraid half of us'll be incapacitated. And that's not even addressing what we're going to do without Bill."

"I can take care of Bill," Charlie said firmly, but Harry gave him a skeptical look that was reflected on numerous other faces, wizard and Muggle alike.

"No offense, Charlie, but –"

"How many other people do you see here with a M.A.G.I. in Magical Creatures?"

Charlie's chin was thrust out in a look of immovable stubbornness, but Tuhoy only frowned at him, still cradling his bleeding arm as Demelza worked quietly over it. "A  _what?"_

"Mastery of Advanced and Gruelling Incantation," Charlie rolled his eyes as he recited quickly. "You'd consider it a Doctorate of Cryptozoology, but the bottom line is that I know what I'm doing, and there's a big difference between hoping I could get Bill's help from underneath it and not having other options. I can get him up, and Bernie too, but I'll need to stay behind while the other scouts head off."

"Ya won't be needin' no other scouts." Seamus spoke softly, but the attention of everyone there was on him instantly, and the faint, beatific smile on his lips only widened. "Nor worryin' yourselves o'er your scars, neither, Jimmy, me friend." He raised his wand, running it in a caressing gesture over the young wizard's face as he stood, too frozen to protest. " _Catheide_."

Jimmy's eyes widened in amazement, his hand raising to gently finger his face as the scars faded back to their normal color, the swelling easing immediately. "What did you…"

"Shielded ya from what's out here. Can't stop a hex pointed straight atcha, but this is just the edges o' what he's doin', no more." The polished alder swept in a circle around them. " _Armtha catheide."_

Gasps and little exclamations scattered the group as the spell took hold, and Neville felt as though the air itself had returned to the forest. Though the light had faded further now, taking on the ruddy glow of true sunset, it seemed brighter somehow, and his pulse began to slow, the anxiety dropping now to more expected levels.

As he finished his circle, Seamus was facing him, and his eyes were more vividly blue than Neville had ever seen them before, so bright they seemed to be…no, they  _were_ glowing. Actual light was emanating from them, faint but enough to tint his golden lashes to turquoise streaks as he smiled, and in the twin inky spots of his pupils, an orange light flickered. Not sunset. Firelight.

Seamus stepped towards him, reaching up to put one hand on Neville's shoulder, and as he looked into those now-unnatural eyes so much closer to his, he could see not just the suggestion of firelight, but the reflection of a growing bonfire as clearly as if it were being mirrored from only a few feet away. "Ya just keep good watch here, Fearless Leader. He's stronger than I'd ever feared, he is, but there's by the same no need for more scouts. I'll be back quick enough, and then ya best be ready, for I'll lead ya right to hell's own doorstep."

OOO

 _I think there's something wrong with me._ Mandy's voice brought Neville abruptly back from where he had been staring into the forest, and he shook his head quickly, frowning in concern as he turned to face her.

"Is it your throat? Is it still bleeding, because I can get Demmy to –"

 _No._ A rough, jagged rattle rasped through her lips as she smiled, the sound that for five years had served as her only remaining trace of a laugh.  _That's stopped, I'm sorry. I didn't mean it that way._

He recognized now the perfect clarity in her projected words that meant they were being shared only with him, and he pitched his own voice quietly in respect for her 'whisper.' "Then what's going on?"

 _Seamus._ She gestured towards the deep shadows into which he had vanished, her expression oddly guilty.  _Part of me kinda hopes he won't come back. Or that he'll come back and say it's too much, that we have no chance at all, and we'll have to just abort. And that's awful, I know, because what they're going to do to Ron and Hermione is just sick, but…._

"But you didn't really know them as any more than faces in the hallway and sort-of celebrities, and it's not awful for you to feel that way." He reached out to her with an understanding smile, squeezing her shoulder gently. "If you've changed your mind, that doesn't make you –"

 _I'm staying,_ she interrupted immediately.  _Bernie would never leave anyone who was_ ever _D.A., even on the edges of it, and I'm not leaving him. He says I can talk right to his heart when it's bad._ Her cheeks flushed at this last confession, and she looked down at her feet, shuffling the heavy boots awkwardly, then glanced up again with a wry smile. _It's nice knowing that being ruined can help him even a little._

Neville simply nodded, making no effort to argue her choice of words. Outsiders may have thought it unhealthy, maybe, but among themselves, they took it as a point of pride and camaraderie to discard all the euphemisms and platitudes that everyone else was always so careful to use with them. The words had become badges of honor, because they all knew and carried in their own ways the meanings of them, and they hid nothing from the only others who could ever truly understand beyond the dictionary definitions: Ruined. Mutilated. Crippled. Even just plain Fucked Up.

His eyes drifted back to the forest, and he nodded towards the east. "He's one of us too, though. Not peripherally.  _Really._ Even if he was gone for a while." Neville sighed, unwilling to say the rest where Harry might overhear, but opening his thoughts to her directly.  _Honestly, as crazy as this has gotten, I don't think I can swear I'd do it just for the two of them either. Especially since they are Aurors, they do know the risks, but Seamus…_

Her eyes widened, and she let out a snort of disgust.  _He's mental!_

"Bernie had his guts ripped half out. You had your throat cut. Tony had his feet smashed like eggs. Seamus had his heart destroyed." The sentiment was too fervent to leave it unspoken, and he barely remembered to keep his voice low at all. "I've seen enough now to know that no matter what's going on with the Diabhal Dubh, what's going on with _him_  goes straight back to the night. What kind of fucking leader would I be to be there for the rest of you and not my own Lieutenant?"

 _He scares me, Neville,_ she protested.  _It's all so passionate, I can hear it sometimes when I don't think he even means me to, and –_

"Beg, borrow, stall, or steal me ten minutes, and they'll be good to go." They both looked up as Charlie crossed over to them, his expression strained but thankfully showing no sign of defeat as he motioned back to that two still-unconscious werewolves. "I think Ministry Decree for the Regulation and Control of Dangerous Creatures #503 is my new personal favorite: All individuals afflicted with Lycanthropy to any and all degrees must maintain upon their persons at all times when away from their primary residence an active solution of Wolfsbane Potion in a dose and concentration suitable for their size and the severity of the affliction."

"But how will that help if this isn't normal Lycanthropy?" Neville argued. "How can we guarantee that potion will do  _anything?"_

"Oh, we'll still have some external changes," Charlie admitted, "they might even go fully wolf if it's strong enough, but the Wolfsbane actually physically blocks the shut-down of the frontal lobes, and that's all that really matters."

Mandy crossed her arms, shaking her head bemusedly.  _Lost me there. I'm failing to see where having Bernie turn completely into a wolf is no big deal._

"Because whatever his body does," the exasperation in his tone was unmistakable, and Neville had to keep from smiling despite it all. No matter what his talents with animals and in sports, dealing with  _people_ was not one of Charlie's greater gifts. "Is irrelevant if there's still a human brain driving. There'll be hormonal urges, sure, but the first thing that happens in a werewolf's transformation is that the frontal lobe of the brain – higher reasoning,  _human_ reasoning – shuts down completely. They drop practically to brain stem function only."

 _You could have just said the Wolfsbane would keep him sane,_ she teased gently, and to his credit, Charlie laughed a little.

"What can I say? My life on the Reserve; it's our frontal lobes against their pyroglandular systems, so it's usually either the full research paper or –Oh,  _shit, DUCK!!"_

Before Neville had a chance to recognize the warning for what it was, Charlie had surged forward, knocking Mandy out of the way and slamming into his chest shoulder-first. The powerful tackle drove the wind completely out of him, and he hit the ground hard, his head striking the protruding knot of a tree-root and exploding stars across his vision. He gagged, struggling not to vomit from the pain and the impact itself as he rolled onto his side, his mind reeling as everything seemed to have gone mad around him.

 _Something_  had come down from the trees, and he had the vague feeling that it would have hit him if Charlie hadn't, but he couldn't make anything make sense enough to be sure. It, whatever it was, was right in the middle of them now, crouched and pivoting one way, then the other as it scanned the scrambling, horrified fighters. Sparks erupted from several wands, but the thing only grunted, shaking them off like fly-bites, then its huge head lowered, and it began to charge towards the nearest of its attackers.

Ginny screamed, scrambling backwards but finding her escape blocked as her legs and the loose fabric of her trousers tangled in the heavy brush, and she dropped her wand, throwing both hands up in front of her face as she twisted away in a last, instinctive effort to shield herself.

The creature was only a few feet away when it stopped, its back arching as it let out a high, thin howl, the sound somewhere between a windstorm's keen and an animal's guttural moan of agony, then it buckled, twisted, and fell to the ground, and only now could he make out the hilt of a long, wicked-looking combat knife protruding from the center of its face.

Still fighting back waves of nausea from the throbbing pain on the back of his head, Neville pushed himself to his knees, then swayed unsteadily to his feet, grateful as he felt a man's hand take his to help him up, a strong arm brace his shoulders. He didn't bother to look and see who it was: all his attention was focused on the creature, and as he took a few staggering steps closer, his jaw fell open, the grating of the ribs he was now sure Charlie had snapped and the pounding of his head forgotten.

It was completely unlike anything he had ever seen, ever even imagined before. Perhaps five feet tall, it was heavily muscled, but although vaguely man-shaped, the muscularity was more like a bull or a mastiff than any human strength. Dark, sleek hair covered every inch of the body, but a simple loin cloth of rough brown fabric was tied around the hips, and below, only a single leg folded beneath it on the forest floor, explaining the strange, bounding motions with which it had been propelling itself towards its intended victim.

Likewise there was only one arm, protruding directly from the middle of its chest with no sign of what could be considered normal shoulders, but the shape of the torso itself was human, and the hand and foot ended in fingers and toes no different than his own. The face, however, was the strangest of all. It looked like some nightmare mating between a gorilla and a wild boar, the blunt snout flared over twin tusks that curled up from its lips, and a single, cycloptic eye now served as a fatal sheath for the knife that had flown from nowhere.

"What  _is –"_ Ginny's high, wavering whisper spoke for all of them, but it was one of the RIRA soldiers who answered, a young man about Neville's own age whose hand was shaking as he stepped forward and pulled the knife from the creature's skull.

"Dead's what 'tis," he said with what was clearly an attempt at bravado that didn't even come close to ringing true. "And a real double-bagger at that."

Dazedly, Ginny nodded, reaching down now to untangle her legs, though she either ignored or perhaps was still too stunned to feel the briars that left cat-scratch streaks of crimson on her hands as she did so. "Thank you, I guess…"

"Definitely." Harry clapped the man on the back firmly, his face stark white behind the look of open gratitude. "I owe you, mate. That was an incredible throw."

"Cory's a fine thing to be makin' ya some money for 'bout an hour in the pub, he is," Maher said hollowly. "Could toss a dart up a gnat's ring so neat's to never even feel the buggery."

"What happens after an hour?" It was a stupid question, Neville knew, but everything was so surreal that it was also about the only thing he could come up with as he knelt carefully down beside the creature, tentatively prodding it with the handle of his wand as if to assure himself that it was not only dead, but real at all.

"Oh, can't say no to a free drink, I can't," Cory admitted shakily. "Gimme 'bout an hour, and I couldn't hit the broad side o' your aul wan's arse."

"Then I think we're all glad we caught you sober," Hannah said quietly, and Neville looked up in surprise, having not even realized she had joined them. She was staring – strangely, he thought – at him, not the creature, and he face was creased with worry behind the smears of grease paint that broke up the pale gleam of her milky skin in the gathering twilight. "You're bleeding, Commander."

Gingerly, Neville reached up, surprised to feel that his hair was wet, his fingers red when he pulled them away. "I hit my head when Charlie tackled me. Is it bad?"

"I've seen worse," she replied evasively. "Seeing double? Nauseous? Dizzy?"

"A little of the last two," he admitted, "but that's later. We still don't know what the  _hell_ this thing—"he poked at the creature again, "—is, where it came from, why it attacked us, or most importantly, if we can expect more of them."

"I can tell you what it is, but I don't believe myself." Charlie's face was stark white, and he was still where they had been standing when it had first appeared, staring at the fallen monster with a look of such shock that he seemed unable to come any closer. "It's impossible."

"That's it!" To everyone's surprise, Tommy threw down his weapon, fumbling awkwardly at his ammunition belt with his one remaining hand as he began to stride determinedly away from the rest of them. "I'm done. Feckin' leavin' this mess. I'm findin' a road, stickin' me thumb out, and goin' back to Belfast, I am. I want a drink, I want me Ma, and I want a joint the size o' me bleedin' cock to get me nerves down offuns."

"Tommy, no!" Kevin grabbed his man by the shoulder, but his hold was shaken off instantly.

"I  _said_ , I'm feckin' finished!" His face was flushed, but he made no further move to leave, instead swiveling to stand toe-to-toe with his leader. "'Jackie called,' ya says. 'Stuck in a warehouse,' ya says. 'Need to borrow the Vee,' ya says. Nowt's not six hours later, and muggins been hacked, hexed, blasted, beamed, and seen me hand rot right off meself afore havin' it nipped off by feckin  _one-eyed witch doctor!_ And now  _that bloke –"_ He gestured at Charlie, and his tirade had grown into a full-fledged hysterical rant. "Mr.  _Dragon Wrangler -_ the one with the brother what we're not to worry o'er 'cause he's just got a  _mild case o' WEREWOLF – is sayin' somethin's IMPOSSIBLE!"_

He stopped at last, breathing hard, his face scarlet as he licked his lips, looking from one person to the other in wild-eyed panic. "I'm near layin' a load, I am, and I don't want do this no more."

"Ya can't just –" Kevin began, but Neville raised a hand, getting to his feet again as he carefully shook his head.

"No, it's okay." He drew a deep breath, steadying himself as he met the young man's huge, terrified eyes. "Let him go, Kevin. He's right – he only volunteered to get a friend out of a warehouse, and he's already paid dearly today. Rachel…" He motioned the witch over, trying not to move his head any more than was necessary. "Take him back to Belfast and come straight back. And…."

Neville hesitated, then fixed Tommy with as open and honest a look as he could. "If you want, she's quite good at Memory Charms. She could erase everything that happened in the last six hours and make you believe you lost your arm in a simple auto accident a few months ago."

"Couldja?" There was a childlike hope in the question, and Rachel nodded kindly.

"Of course."

"Okay then, Obliviate, modify, and get back here as fast as you possibly can." He paused only long enough to see that Kevin was exchanging a few last words of his own with his compatriot before turning back to Charlie, who had now approached the body and was kneeling to examine the pierced, single eye socket. "So it's obviously  _possible._ What is it?"

Charlie was silent for a long moment, then he finally did look up, and if anything his face was paler still, the freckles that scattered his face so thickly as to almost be a tan the only trace of color at all. "It's a Fomorian."

"A Fomorian," Neville repeated dully.

"A magical creature native to Ireland. They take many forms – not Metamorphs, just really varied – but this one is classic. One leg, one arm, one eye, incredibly strong, incredibly tough, and incredibly bloodthirsty." He swallowed hard, then let out a long breath before meeting Neville's eyes in disbelief. "And they've also been extinct for several thousand years."

"So what's it doing here?" Harry asked.

"That," Charlie shook his head, "is something we're going to have to hope Seamus can answer, because right now, your guess is as good as mine."

"Well I know what it's doin' here," Maher's reply held none of the cheek that the words would imply, instead there was a heavy forboding, even a tremble of fear, and his eyes were not on the body, nor Charlie, nor anyone else. They were pointed up, into the interlacing canopy of branches through which the sunset was in full, livid glow as he reached slowly, very slowly behind his back for the grip of his assault rifle.

"It's bringin' friends."


	15. The Battle of Druim Cett

Neville almost didn't want to look up, but his eyes followed Maher's to the branches above them, and what he saw – what he knew he would see – made his breath catch in an involuntary gasp of horror. There were dozens of them, too many to count, clotting the branches, clinging to the tree-trunks like a grotesque parody of a flock of birds. Charlie had been right that they came in many shapes, but it was clear that they were all Fomorians, the creatures that weren't supposed to even exist.

That was definitely a fully academic argument now. He could see several that, like their dead fellow on the ground, sported one eye, arm, and leg; but there were others who seemed like deformed crosses between humans and other animals – goats, bears, even boars – and still others whose only departure from simply being amazingly ugly humans was the sleek, near-black hair that covered them all. Whether it was a uniform of some kind or simply the attire of whatever passed for a culture, they all wore the same rough loincloths, and none appeared to be armed, but they didn't need to be. Teeth, claws, and the menace shining in every eye was more than enough.

Maher had brought the gun up now, and he took a careful step closer to Neville, his voice low and tense. "I've got a bead on the big one there, I do. Tell your lot –"

"No!" He made the command as firm as he could without raising his tone above a whisper, not moving, afraid to startle them. "Not yet! Don't fire! We're all spread out, they'd take us too easy."

Carefully, he slid his hand to his waist, pressing the button he had been shown on the small radio and repeating the command into every ear of the army that suddenly seemed so meager by comparison. "Repeat to all combined forces _, do not engage the Fomorians._ That is an order.  _Do not engage._ Retreat slowly to me. Someone levitate Bill and Bernie with you. No sudden moves, no threatening gestures."

His eyes never left the treetops, but all around him, he could hear the soft, cautious rustle of tentative footsteps on the leaves as his soldiers began to close ranks around him. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see wands and guns at the ready, catch glimpses of wide eyes and taut shoulders, white faces and whiter knuckles.

He pressed the button a second time. "Harry, when they're all in tight, you give the word. No attack. Repeat,  _no attack._  Dooley, Maher, your weapons make too much noise unless we're hit first. Everyone magical, on Harry's command, we need a goddamned fortress. Every defensive spell you've got. Shield Charms, Barrier Charms; Tony, if you still remember how to make that brick wall, go ahead and throw that in there too. We've got to hold tight until Seamus gets back with news."

"What if he's not coming back?" Justin's voice sounded slightly flat through the earpiece, distorted with a faint hiss of static, but the closely restrained terror was clear enough. "If those things are out there and he's on his own, how do we know he –"

"We don't," Zacharias cut in. "Still, we've got to give him time, and if he doesn't come back, then we haven't got a chance and this whole thing will have to be scrubbed, but we need to keep our wands in one piece until we know."

There was a pause, then he heard Harry both from what couldn't be more than inches behind him and on the tiny plastic bud in his ear. "All in, Commander. On three, everyone. One. Two.  _Three!_ "

A dozen layered cracks split the air, sparks erupting everywhere as the witches and wizards lashed out with their most powerful defensive magic, Neville's own wand joining them with the Shielding Spell that was the only Gaelic magic Seamus had ever been able to teach him successfully during their months together in the emptied Gryffindor dorm. " _Sgaith!"_

The noise was explosive, though intellectually he knew it was perhaps half as loud as a single Muggle gunshot would have been, and wouldn't carry nearly as far. It was only in the unnatural quiet of the besieged forest that it seemed so tremendous. And yet the Fomorians didn't flinch.

They didn't react at all. Even as the air around the cluster of young fighters became a shimmering, pearlescent bubble of magical force, even as a thick, solid wall of red brick shot up from the earth to ring them in a waist-high stockade. Nothing. The one whose stare had still not left Neville's own merely blinked, then picked its nose.

" _Do sommat!_ " One of the Irishmen Neville didn't recognize; a dark-haired RIRA youth who couldn't have been more than eighteen, licked his lips nervously. "C'mon, ya filthy beasts,  _do_ sommat!"

"I wouldn't be proddin' them, Shannon," Maher said coolly. "I for one like them just fine up there, so's I do. Ain't too sure o' all this shimmer and flash nor a wall made o' nothin' if they do decide to pay's a call."

As if in response to young Shannon's plea, the Fomorian who in Neville's mind seemed the leader – though he had no idea if there actually were any such distinctions, but it was at least the biggest and boldest he could see – opened its mouth. What he had expected to emerge, he didn't know, but he had thought it would be some form of animal sound. A hoot, a growl, a bark, anything.

Not speech.

The voice still wasn't properly human, but the Fomorian was unquestionably making  _words_ , words that belonged to a human language of some kind, and the phrase was repeated over and over again, spreading quickly from one to the other through the trees until all the Fomorians were chanting it in rhythmic unison. Even still, it continued to spread, and a chill ran down Neville's spine as he realized that it was being carried either by runners or simply along an unbroken chain through the forest to the east.

" _Buna-ee-an shev gah-irrrsee uh-ey-ill. Shev! Shev!"_

" _Buna-ee-an shev gah-irrrsee uh-ey-ill. Shev! Shev!"_

" _Buna-ee-an shev gah-irrrsee uh-ey-ill. Shev! Shev!"_

"What the hell are they saying?" Harry demanded. "Is that Irish?"

"I…I don't know," Maher confessed shakily. "Not no Irish I'm knowin', 'taint – and I can catch Munster and Connaught well 'nuff – but still seems half familiar."

"You're lucky your language hasn't changed that much, Maher, or you wouldn't even have that. It's Gaelic, I'd bet my wand, but I'd also wager a linguist would tell us it dates back at least as far as those things are supposed to," Charlie said softly.

"So what does it  _mean?"_ Harry repeated. "Is there any way to know, because they really seem to be pretty keen on it."

"No idea, but at least they…hush!" Charlie waved his hand, silencing them. At first, Neville could hear nothing over the still-repeating mantra, but then it began to change, distantly at first, then nearer and nearer. From one to the other, a new message was coming back along the line of the Fomorians, replacing the old. This one was shorter, simpler, and it carried with it a highly unwelcome sense of excitement.

" _Yon-see-yog!"_

" _Yon-see-yog!"_

" _ **Yon-see-yog!"**_

The moment that it was at last spoken by all of them, the meaning became clear. The Fomorians attacked.

En masse they leapt from the trees, and Neville whirled towards his troops, gesturing harshly. "Get down! Hold the shield!"

The order was unneeded. Every man and woman had already dropped to their knees, sheltering behind the wall as the wizards pointed their wands upwards to reinforce the barrier that crackled and snapped as the Fomorians flung themselves against it. One after another, in waves that screamed and cursed and howled insanely, they clawed and kicked at the shimmering bastion, but it held. Oh, thank Merlin it held, even when they climbed directly on top of it, filling the air with the stink of burning hair singed from their feet and knees.

Even though he knew it would be a useless gesture if their protection failed, Neville found Hannah within the tight knot of defenders, wrapping himself around her even as they both held their wands unwaveringly towards the shield that was their only hope. It was like having front-row seats for the end of the world, hellish and primal, but still they came, undaunted. There were so many of them now that it was almost completely dark inside their shelter, and the few rays of light that did manage to penetrate streaked their skin in reds and oranges that only added to the nightmarish atmosphere.

One of the RHD panicked as a roaring mouth gaped only inches from his head at the other side of the transparent barrier, screaming as he fired his pistol in what should have been a point-blank killing shot. But their security turned against them now. The shield flared, and the bullet ricocheted back wildly, careening across the enclosed space to bury itself with a shriek of pain in the soft flesh of Naomi's upper arm.

"Ya feckin' fool!" Kevin shouted, lashing out to slam the man across the temple with the butt of his own pistol. His rebuke left a nasty gash, dropping the offender to the ground as Kevin screamed down at him in scarlet-faced fury, looking as if he wanted to finish the job and just kill the man outright. "Ya breach that, we're all dead!"

His hand drew back again, but Harry grabbed his wrist, shaking his head furiously. "No! We'll need everyone if we're ever going to get –"

He was cut off by a scream. A woman's scream. From outside.

Neville leapt to his feet, horrified to think that somehow it had begun already, that they were too late, not even considering that the shriek had been far too close to be Hermione, no matter what her agony. But it wasn't Hermione. It was Rachel.

The young witch had returned exactly as she had been directed, but she was outside the shield, completely exposed, and the Fomorians had already seen her. Over a dozen of them abandoned the attack on the huddled defenders, and she barely had time to blast the first two away with her wand before there were too many, too close, and with another horrible, shrill scream, she was down.

" _Rachel!"_ Justin had stood, and before anyone could stop him, purple fire lashed from the end of his wand, ripping a hole in the shield, and he had vaulted the wall and charged out into the maelstrom after her.

" _JUSTIN!"_ Neville called desperately after the other man, but it was too late. He was already out, already running towards her, vibrant green flashes knocking away the Fomorians hunched savagely over Rachel's barely-visible body. The second potential victim was too much, and he felt sick with helplessness as every one of the monsters turned to close in on this new, exposed prey.

Without hesitation, he lunged for the hole Justin had torn in the shield, still clearly outlined in flaring, crackling energy, but Tuhoy's huge hands had his shoulders, yanking him back. "No! Your man's a deddun, sir! Ya can't!"

"He's got her!" Tony's cry was a mixture of elation and pure disbelief, and Neville twisted in Tuhoy's restraining hold to see for himself.

Incredibly, impossibly, Justin had reached the fallen woman, although the figure he now cradled in his arms was nearly indistinguishable as human; a bloody mass of torn and ravaged flesh that dangled limply and stained his uniform instantly halfway down his thighs. He started towards the makeshift fort again, but his wand hand was blocked, and it was clear that there was no way for him to fling her over his shoulders without her body literally coming apart on him. Still, it seemed he might make it.

He was running faster than seemed possible with his burden, but then his boot caught on the edge of a root. Justin fell hard, twisting to barely avoid landing on Rachel's feebly twitching body, but the wand was knocked completely from his hand, and with a roar of glee, one of the Fomorians snatched it up, waving it in savage victory before breaking it cleanly in two with one snap of his powerful jaws.

They could have had him already, could have torn him limb from limb, but they circled, drawing in around him like wolves, eyes and teeth gleaming as they muttered in their strange, ancient language. The words were beyond foreign, but the anticipation, the satisfaction, and the mocking was clear as Justin pushed himself to his feet, standing over Rachel with his fists balled in front of him like a prize fighter.

Justin tossed his head back, drawing himself up as proudly as he could. "I have a distinct feeling it's not going to matter two shits to you gentlemen that I'm technically a Royal, now is it?" To Neville's amazement, he sounded at most vaguely offended, and there was no trace of fear in his face or voice. "My mother's first cousin is Sir Angus Ogilvy, and I'll have you know the Crown isn't well known for putting up with stinking Irish barbarians, so don't expect me to go down easy."

One of the Fomorians had drawn in closer now, licking its lips, but as it reached out one long-taloned hand towards Rachel's bloody legs, Justin snatched out the pistol from its holster and jammed it against the creature's head, all aristocratic refinement vanished in his own animal growl as he pulled the trigger.

The retort was half-muffled against the animal's skull, but everything they had been warned about the use of blanks at close range was made perfectly clear as the Fomorian fell insensate to the ground, the flesh burned and blasted back from its naked skull. Justin had the gun in both hands now, turning back and forth slowly to aim it at each in turn. "Didn't I warn you, lads?"

A bit of a smirk appeared as they seemed to hesitate, but it was wiped away instantly in a gasp of pain as a huge, half-bear Fomorian dropped from the trees above, hitting him squarely between the shoulders and slamming him face-first into the ground. The weapon was ripped from his hands, and as the animal's head ducked, they all heard a wrenching scream before it raised again, a swath of neatly gelled black hair and scarlet scalp hanging from its jaws.

Then more shots rang out, louder and sharper, and Neville started back as he realized that they came from almost directly next to him. He whirled, the chastisement on the tip of his tongue for repeating the dangerous mistake, but he was wrong. Kevin, Greg, and the young man whose head was still oozing blood were kneeling at the wall, the muzzles of their rifles braced against it as they used the tear in the shield like a loophole to blast away with a withering, merciless hail of bullets.

The Fomorians surrounding the two fallen figures were blown off their feet, driven back and some nearly ripped to pieces, and he heard Kevin scream into his radio over the din. "Justin! If ya can hear me, lad, if you're still alive, we're givin' ya coverin' fire! Get your arse back here, NOW!"

There was a long, awful pause, then Neville couldn't help letting out a cheer with twenty others as Justin's red-smeared hands moved, scrabbling beneath him for a moment before gathering at his sides and pushing him to his hands and knees. He shook his head, scattering blood in a dark rain from his torn scalp, then he was on his feet, and astonishingly, he turned back once again for Rachel.

But it was too late. At some point during the second attack, they had seized her again, and this time, as he gathered her up - the bullets snapping and whistling only inches to either side of him with steel-eyed precision to take out any Fomorian who dared try and come near again – her head flopped back in his arms ghoulishly. Her spine had been snapped, and it twisted, hanging from her shoulders by nothing more than shreds of flesh and sinew, and Justin froze, staring in anguished horror at his failure.

Seeing the dangerous paralysis, Neville grabbed his microphone as if squeezing it harder could put more emphasis in his words as he jammed down on the button. "JUSTIN! There's nothing you can do, man! She's gone! GET! BACK! HERE! That's an  _ORDER, Auror!"_

Justin looked up, and now Neville could see that it was more than just emotional shock that paled his skin and gave the glazed, uncertain look to his eyes. Deep gauges tore into his refined face and another heavy chunk was missing from the meat of his shoulder, and he was losing blood not just in streams, but in gushes.

Demelza saw it too. Grabbing the medical bag, she leapt up lightly between the RHD marksmen. "Keep up that covering fire…I'll get him back!"

Spurred into new strength by the prospect of losing their only Mediwitch, Neville surged out of Tuhoy's shock-slackened grip, but his fingers barely managed to brush the sole of Demelza's boot as she scrambled nimbly over the wall. With a roar of his own frustration, he hit the radio button so hard that he almost tore it from his belt. " _Demmy, goddamn you, are you –"_

He never got a chance to finish it. Nor did she ever have a chance to reach her patient.

A bolt of lightning – a literal, blazing bolt no different than that of a summer thunderstorm – slammed through the forest, setting the trees on fire in its wake and blowing a deep, smoking, charred crater into the soft earth. The Fomorians howled and scattered, plainly terrified of the flames that were already beginning to lick backwards through the dead branches still left from the recent winter. Kevin and his men trailed off their fire, conserving their ammunition, but not one of them left their post, ready to fire again – indeed, their fingers twitching on the triggers as if daring just one of the creatures to lag, to return, to change its foul mind.

It seemed strangely silent now, the Fomorians' screams and horrible babble fading as they fled, but the crackle of the shield was still there, the crackle of the fire growing louder, and in its glow, only two figures remained standing among the dark, still trunks of the trees.

One was Justin; swaying now, looking as if he were going to collapse at any moment, Rachel's corpse still clutched tight to his chest. The other seemed impossible, already written off as dead because there was no way, no  _way_  he could have made it through that monstrous army alone. And yet there he was – a little singed, his hair loose over his shoulders, his face streaked in dirt – but apparently unharmed as he strode forward, his wand held lightly at the ready.

Harry's jaw dropped, and he shook his head as if trying to dispel a dream. " _Finnigan?"_

"Told ya I'd be back," Seamus replied calmly, but now that he was drawing closer, Neville could see something else on his face that alarmed him more than anything yet. Fear. Seamus was downright terrified, and as he ran the back of his knuckles over his forehead, it wasn't just the growing heat of the fire that made his skin shine with sweat. "We've need move  _now._ He's started, and oh, Sweet Merlin's Mercy, when I say all hell's broke loose, how I wish it were a turn o' phrase."

Neville wasted no time, pushing past Kevin himself to grasp the edges of the tear in the shield in both hands. It tingled and burned furiously, but he didn't flinch, hesitating only to turn back and find Harry among the others. "Get your people ready to go. Charlie, you get your wish. Justin's in no shape to fly. And get Bernie and Bill up again. If they're not sane, we're just going to have to knock them out and dump them somewhere else."

"You can't go out there!" Harry protested. "If they come back –"

"—then Kevin's going to cover my arse, aren't you?" Neville snapped back. "I'd rather not be yelling our situation back and forth while the forest is burning down around us, thank you!"

Without waiting for an answer, he pushed through the opening, ignoring the stab of pain from his cracked ribs as he scrambled up over the wall and dropped to the ground again outside. Justin had fallen to his knees now, but Demelza was with him, and she had already stopped the bleeding from the wound on his head, though his skull still shone unnaturally white through the gaping tear. The young wizard looked up as he approached, his eyes vaguely pleading, but Neville ignored him. There was no time.

The fire was roaring now, consuming its way through the treetops above them like a living, raging thing, and the heat was becoming unbearable, branches and embers collapsing around him in a deadly rain. Several times, he had to dodge burning debris, and he yanked the collar of his t-shirt up over his mouth and nose to block out as much of the thickening smoke as he could as he made his way over to where Seamus was still standing, motionless.

" _Seamus!"_ he called. "Are you all right? How the hell did you get back here?"

His voice seemed to startle the other man out of the strange reverie with which he had been contemplating the smoking pit of the lightning strike, snapping his head up in sudden awareness. "They didn't want me," he said simply. "Too busy with the lot o' ya. They know, Fearless Leader. They know we're here; forest's his eyes, 'tis, and he sent the Fomorians to take ya out."

He was close enough now to see that the blue light of his eyes had intensified - they were shining so brightly now that his cheekbones were bathed in an eerie glow – but the acrid smoke was making his own eyes tear and sting so much that he was forced to squint them almost shut. The beginnings of a derisive chuckle turned into a choking cough, and he gasped as his chest rewarded him with a sharp burst of pain. "Held our own just fine, actually. He'll have to try harder than that. But you found him?"

"Aye, and he's started. No time to waste. Best just Apparate –" Seamus stepped back almost too late as a flaming branch dropped directly where he would have been standing, and for a moment, he looked like a small, frightened boy as those strange eyes met Neville's. "Didn't mean to do this, but I had to scatter them…didn't mean to start a fire…."

His voice was dreamy, raspy, unfocused, and Neville recognized the shallower breaths, the slowed reflexes for what they were. He flicked his wand, casting a Bubble-Head Charm quickly over both of them, and Seamus sucked in a deep, grateful breath, shaking his head as his thoughts began to clear. "I – feckin' hell, we don't have time for this! We move,  _now,_ or we're all roasted alive and our friends're done for. He's begun, he has, and oh, Fearless Leader, we're in the shite."

"Just tell me!" Neville ordered tightly. "No more of this, Seamus –  _what's going on?"_

"He's got a cauldron, bloody big one, ancient as earth, and he's used it to open a gate t'the Oweynagat – the Otherworld. He's got hundreds o' dark creatures asides his own wizards and Muggles…Werewolves, Sceadugenga, Banshees, Dullahan, Barghest, more Fomorians, Fachen, Leanashe, Fear Gorta…we're so screwed, Fearless Leader. Proper fecked, we are."

Neville felt his face fall pale at this hollow-voiced recitation. He had no idea what most of the beings Seamus had listed even were, but it didn't even really matter. If they were spoken with that tone, spoken in the same breath as Werewolves – which he knew – and Fomorians – which he had quite recently come to know – they sure as hell weren't Unicorns or Pygmy Puffs. He sucked a deep breath, fluttering the bubble around his mouth, then glanced back towards the fortification.

The smoke had thickened heavily, but he could still make out Bill's long red hair gleaming in the firelight as he leaned on his brother's shoulder, shaky but clearly standing, and the wavering look of everyone's faces proved that he wasn't the only one to have thought of a Bubble-Head. Demelza had Justin standing as well, and he nodded tersely, activating his radio.

"We're up against a lot of dark creatures, people," he said, forcing his voice to remain steady. "But we've found him, and he's begun the ritual, so there's really not time to worry about that. And he knows we're here, which isn't great, but it means we can Apparate, which will save us a lot of time. We're moving out."

There was a pause, then Harry's voice crackled in his ear. "I'll take mine and go. Signal holds?"

Neville hesitated only a moment. "Charlie, how's Bill?"

"I'm all right, Commander. Raring to kill something, but I don't know how much of that's even the wolf after what I'm seeing of that poor girl." Bill's reply sounded rougher, more growling than his usual tones, but it was sane enough, and Neville nodded crisply.

"Same signal then, Harry. And the rest of us are Apparating after Seamus. He knows where they are. Be prepared for the fight of your lives, everyone, but don't lose track of the plan. We hit hard, we hit tight, and we're just breaking through, getting to the center so the extrication team can do their job and we'll work from inside where we can make a stronghold. No time for a second wave, so for Merlin's sake,  _pay attention_ to your Apparations, we have to do this in one."

"Roger that, Commander," Maher replied. "Me lads're hot for't now, and I don't just mean we're all gettin' a mite crispy, neither."

"Then let's go. We follow Seamus. Longbottom out."

OOO

After the blistering inferno they had left behind, it almost seemed a relief when he reappeared, the Bubble-Head Charm broken by the Apparition, but unneeded as he sucked in a deep breath of cool, sweet-smelling evening air. The forest was dark around him, the shadows utterly black and the twilight a thin and fading blue, but as he recovered himself, all sense of reprieve was snatched instantly away.

He needn't have worried about the sound of the Apparition. There was no way it could have been heard: the forest was throbbing with drums, with the crackling roar of a bonfire every bit as intense as the wildfire they had left, though heaped and contained in the center of a large clearing, the sparks and flames spitting and writhing towards the sky around an immense stone cauldron easily big enough for several grown men to lie flat within.

Surrounding the fire, easily seventy-five men stood in white robes and silver masks, facing inward with their arms raised. Their voices were united in a steady chant that pulsed with the beat of the drums, the words needing no translation to convey greed, cruelty, hunger, the anticipation and lust for power so close they could scent it on the wind.

_Daingean! Cumhachtach! Athnuafaidh sibh! Loitfidh sibh! Glanfar tine!_

But their voices were not alone. Hundreds of other throats joined them, and Neville's stomach lurched as he realized that the clearing was far, far wider than it had first appeared. What he had taken for the encroaching edge of the forest was in reality a crowd of people as thick and densely packed as any bracken, though 'people' was perhaps far too lenient a term. Some were human enough – tall, willowy women with unnaturally pale skin but the faces of rotted corpses, naked men who could have been beautiful if it weren't for the fangs that gleamed when they grinned – but others were not even close. There were things that looked like a grotesque version of a house-elf crouched low among them, beings that were somehow alive although seeming to have been bloodily torn in half, walking corpses emaciated beyond all recognition with long, hooked claws and wicked teeth, and even blue-faced hags with iron talons and what looked, unspeakably, like the flayed skins of infants dangling from their waists.

The earpiece rasped, pulling his attention away from the monstrous hoard as he heard Maher's voice shiver a whisper above the static. "May I strongly recommend to ya, if ya've ever had an inclination to pray, now'd be the time."

To his own surprise, Neville found himself nodding. "Any recommendations?"

"Dear God or Gods or whatever ya keen be called," the reply came from Seamus, but there was something very wrong with his voice, echoing and distant, and as he turned his head, it was with a sense of inevitability, not alarm that he saw that the glow had become a blaze, his eyes now shining almost too brightly to look at, and all of his skin now lit with a faint, shimmering aura that made him seem – no, he  _was_  semi-transparent.

He stood as he spoke, stepping slowly towards the edge of the clearing, and Neville tried to reach out, tried to stop him, but his hands passed through the sturdy fabric and flesh beneath like mist. Seamus showed no sign of having felt anything, and he was shining like moonlight now, looking more like a ghost than a man, but still with too much color, too much substance to be spirit alone.

"I've failed ya, I've failed meself, I've done so much so very wrong, but ah, I've tried, and take me now for what I am and those bastards for what they are, and let me make them pay. Let me make them weep the tears and feel the pain, put your power in me hands and dance it on the tip o' me blade, and I shall be the shadow of death, the avengin' spirit, the creature o' the neither world. For I've died and yet I breathe, I'm lost but here I stand, and tonight, ah, tonight let the restless have their champion. We stand on the edge o' hell with justice so weak in our hands. Give us strength. Give us courage. And by all the lost, give us  _blood._ "

And now he was standing only inches away from the backs of the nearest of the creatures, and Neville held his breath, completely unsure of what to do, what to say, if there was anything he should, anything he  _could_ do to stop whatever was about to happen. Seamus stopped, his head tipped back, and he shouted at the top of his lungs, the sound echoing preternaturally above everything else and bringing the chant, the drums, even the crackle of the bonfire to a sudden hush. " _Diabhal Dubh!"_

Like a dark curtain, the creatures parted, the circle opened, and suddenly Neville could see past Seamus into the very heart of the gathering, and what he saw there made his blood freeze in his veins. The Diabhal Dubh was standing quite calmly beside a low stone altar, and there, tied across it, an iron torque at his neck and his naked body smeared with strange symbols of blue and white, was Ron. His head turned, his bright hair shining in the firelight, and he made a horrible, gagging cry, the lower half of his face and lips covered in blood, and Neville realized in a single moment of awful clarity that the thing clutched with the knife in the dark wizard's hand was his friend's tongue.

But whether Ron's attempted call was meant to be a warning or a cry for help, it didn't matter, because the Diabhal Dubh simply bowed to Seamus like a long-expected friend, then motioned him towards the center of the circle with an eminently civilized gesture as he turned to his followers.

"Now," he said calmly, and Neville was shocked to hear that the words were in English before the silver mask turned, the pale eyes found his, and he knew that his concealment in the shadows was no disguise at all, and that the language was for his benefit as his enemy addressed him directly. "We are all here. The children with their shallow magic who are called heroes by a nation o' cowards, the fools with their Bibles and their guns who have no idea what power is. Like young saplin's whose roots have not yet gone deep, they think they can stand against the storm, but they know not the power o' the old ways, o' a truly ancient forest. But now…" he paused, and his arms raised, the gob of flesh in his hand dripping blood down the inside of his wrist. "They will learn."

The bonfire leapt skyward, flaring like the sun itself, and Neville was forced to flinch back, shielding his face from the burst of heat and his eyes from the glare, but before it had even faded, there was another roar, this one from all sides, and he didn't need to be able to see to know what it was. His wand lashed out, and he threw himself to the side, knowing that he was doomed if he stayed in the same place another instant, feeling even as he ducked the swipe of something cutting through the air right where he had been standing, and he rolled, firing up blankly towards whoever –  _whatever_  – it was.

The monstrous army had been set upon them, and Seamus had been all too right. All hell had broken loose.

Ron cried out again, and this time it was a scream, raw and guttural, and Neville couldn't help looking into the circle again as he pulled himself to his feet, his wand still moving as he fought without even thinking, the instincts of combat returned in all their ferocity. The Diabhal Dubh was ignoring the battle entirely, and the knife had come down again, his mouth moving in unheard incantation as he sliced into the young wizard's bound and helpless arms, cutting away first one bicep, then the other, as emotionlessly as a butcher carving meat.

He lifted the two sections of muscle into the air, then lowered them slowly, and Neville had only a moment's glance of them touching his lips before his attention was yanked away again. Something had caught him across the back of the shoulder, burning a hot and painful trail, and he let out a cry of his own, whirling to face his new attacker.

It was a man, tall and broad-shouldered, clad in a long black cloak and robes, but where the head should have been, there was nothing, and the neck of the robes gaped bloodlessly empty. A knife was gripped in his thick-fingered hands, the blade newly, wetly red, and Neville took a step back, lashing out with a streak of glowing blue fire from the end of his wand that should have knocked the whatever-it-was off its feet in agony. But it bounced off, not even singing the fabric of the robes, and now the knife came down again, impossibly fast, the stroke impossibly strong, and it was by the thinnest margin that he managed to dodge it at all.

"Nothing's…working…Commander!" Zacharias' voice was already showing strain, the words coming between gasps, and out of the corner of his eye, he could see the other man dueling desperately to fend off two immense, bullish black dogs with glowing red eyes, the flashes and bursts of his wand seeming to do little more than startle the creatures. The nearer one sprung, and the Auror was reduced to using his wand as a simple dagger, stabbing it deep into one scarlet eye to force the monster back.

The staccato bark of the Muggle weapons was a harsh counterpoint to the drums that had resumed their beat, and the whole thing was mad, disorienting, nothing at all like the fight at Hogwarts had been, but at least the storm of lead appeared to be succeeding where magic wavered. Taking the cue of brute force, Neville slashed back with his wand, transfiguring the cherry and unicorn into scythe-like blade, and this time it bit deep into the chest of the headless combatant, releasing not blood, but a flood of red light that split apart its entire torso before it crumpled to the ground.

He took the split-second that it gave him to hit the button on his radio. "Hand-to-hand!" he shouted. "Knives, fists, grab fucking  _rocks_  if you have to!"

Snatching the gun from the holster under his arm, he flipped it in his hand, slamming the butt hard into the face of one of the emaciated things whose talons were seconds from tearing Ricky's throat out. The bones should have crunched, fragile as glass from the looks of them, but it barely staggered, and he succeeded only in turning its attack on himself.

There were so many of them, it was like trying to hold the gates all over again. No matter how many he fought, how many he brought down, there were always more, and it was never the same to stop them. They were nothing natural – too many didn't seem to feel pain at all, and those could only be stopped by sheer brutality, hacking them to pieces until they  _couldn't_ keep coming.

His ribs were blinding streaks of fire, misting salt-sweet into his mouth with every breath, and he felt his movements slowing, his thoughts thickening, and he was sucking for air harder and harder, even as every gasp hurt more and more excruciatingly. Somewhere beyond the melee, he knew that a jagged piece of bone must have pierced a lung, that he was drowning slowly in his own blood, but it didn't matter.

Nothing mattered but the next nightmare, and he struck the hand from one of the blue-faced hags, grabbing it before it hit the ground and discarding the simple bludgeon of the pistol to fight now with his wand-blade and the severed claws, their iron hooked nails tearing skin with ease as razored as when their former owner had used them as he turned them against her, slashing them down across the wrinkled cerulean skin to bathe his arm in black blood.

"Name o' the Father! Name o' the Son! Name o' the Holy feckin' Ghost, back to Hell where ya belong!" Maher's shouts were right behind him, and the Irishman had run out of ammunition now, but he was still fighting hard, bleeding from a dozen places but still standing as he used the stock of his rifle with crushing effectiveness.

The assault was unstoppable, the attackers unending, but whether the Diabhal Dubh's army hadn't expected such fervent resistance, expecting to cow their prey with the pure terror of their appearance, or whether the hardened young fighters were simply stronger, more adaptable than their foes, no one had yet fallen that he could see. If anything, to his elated disbelief, it seemed as if they were managing to press forward, inch by inch, and the white-robed backs of the circle itself seemed almost near enough to touch.

Something roared past him, and he almost struck, but he checked himself at the last possible moment. It was Bill, recognizable by nothing but the shreds of camouflage cloth still clinging to the wolf's muscular haunches, the russet shade of the fur as he charged, fully transformed, at a cluster of his fellow werewolves that had gone for his sister, backing her against a tree where she was attempting to use a pair of long, conjured knives to hold them at bay.

Ron was no longer screaming. He was still moving - and Neville knew that at this point, consciousness would be something that had to have been magically forced upon him – but his eyes stared too wide and too scarlet-rimmed, the lids cut away to prevent him from closing them as he was jerked to his feet and bound to a stake that appeared beside the blood-soaked altar. The restraint was more to hold him upright than to prevent any struggle, it was obvious. His hands were gone at the wrists, his feet at the ankles, his lower legs sagging wrongly beneath him as his obviously-shattered knees did nothing to hold him up, but amazingly, he still twisted against the bonds, each breath a gush of crimson bubbles on his lips.

He was fighting, still protesting in every way his broken body would allow, even as his tormentor turned his back and waved the gnarled wand to levitate the now-roasted human meat from the cauldron, sectioning it in the air and distributing it calmly to his circle of followers, who accepted it in both hands as graciously as hors d'oeuvres at a fine luncheon. Yet it didn't seem to be the consumption of his own body he was struggling against so desperately, but something else, and as the Diabhal Dubh moved around the circle, clearing the view of the altar, Neville could see why.

It was Hermione.

They had shaved her head, her scalp gleaming fishbelly blue-white in the orange glare of the fire, and she was clad in a brief white robe that was a sick parody of virginity, the fabric all but transparent and the front dipped so low that her breasts were fully exposed. Like Ron, an iron torque circled her slender neck in a symbolic slave's collar, but unlike him, she was not bound, and at first it made no sense that she made no effort to resist as the Diabhal Dubh took her by the wrists and lowered her over the altar, her legs spread to either side as she lay too calmly on her back, hands now pinned above her head.

Then her head lolled loosely to the side, and he could see her eyes now, glazed and empty, the thin trail of spittle shining like silver from the edge of her lips, and he realized that she had been drugged, that she was barely conscious at all. Fury coursed through him, and it seemed as if he could suddenly breathe again, anger serving to pour strength into his body where air refused.

Some small part of his mind suggested that maybe it was better this way, maybe it was its own mercy that she was out of her head, that she didn't realize what was about to happen to her, but it did nothing to stifle the greater rage. The sound that came from his throat was nothing recognizable as an officer of the law, a civilized and educated young man, a decorated war hero. It was a warrior's howl, coming from somewhere as ancient and savage as the beasts that now twisted under his blades as they flashed and swung, each stroke propelling him fractionally closer to the edge of the circle that still seemed oblivious to the gladiatorial spectacle mere feet away.

Ron at least could fight – was still twisting against the stake, the obvious pain of his gruesome injuries ignored under the greater anguish of having to watch the degradation of the woman he loved – but Hermione simply lay there placidly, her eyes drifting listlessly closed as the elaborate black robes came open, revealing the dark wizard's own naked and painted body beneath.

His head tilted back, his long beard now stained red against the gray, and though his wand was now lying on the altar beside Hermione's pale thigh, the magic crackled in his very palms like cupped lightning before he reached down, grasping her hips and yanking her forward to the edge of the altar in a single harsh thrust. Even through the haze of whatever they had given her, her back arched, her face tightening in pain as he shoved inside, but her arms remained limp over the carved and bloodied stone, and it was Ron who screamed, Ron who sobbed, Ron's lidless eyes that shed the tears.

Neville didn't want to look, but he still felt a burning surge of frustration as he was forced to turn his back on the horrific scene. There were too many, far too many, and it took every bit of his attention just to stay alive, and he had to remind himself that he  _had_ to stay alive, that he could do nothing to stop this if he were to fall. It wasn't easy – to remember,  _or_ to manage.

There were three of them coming at him now, but after all the monsters of the night, it was the simplicity of their appearance that put Neville overwhelmingly on his guard and sent a shiver up his spine that made him suddenly aware of how much everything was spinning, and how little of that was just the disorientation of it all. He was dizzy, the earth canting wickedly under his feet, but he managed to hold his balance, and even though things were beginning to double in and out again, shapes wavering in front of his eyes, he knew it was no hallucination when the androgynously beautiful features of his new attackers began to twist and distort.

Where a moment ago he had been facing three young men, now they were demons straight from the pages of some medieval etching, fanged and horned, red-eyed and black-fleshed, towering over him, dragon-like spiked tails lashing as their forked tongues slid over lipless mouths. Then the first of them swung towards him, and his arm lengthened like a claw-ended whip, catching him hard across the shoulder and tearing through the cloth and the flesh beneath like nothing.

It would have been his throat, should have been his throat, but he had twisted barely in time, using the blade of his wand to deflect the hooked claw itself from biting into the vulnerable side of his neck. The movement threw him off his tenuous balance, and he rolled to his knees, parrying a second attack from another of them with the severed hand of the crone.

The creature only laughed, toying with him, and for a moment, he saw it  _become_ him – bloodied and panting, on his knees with a mocking laugh replacing defiance and rage – and then the monster was there again, and he spat, tasting the thickness of the blood on his tongue as he forced himself to his feet, swearing. They were shapeshifters. Fucking  _shapeshifters._

As if they had been waiting for his cue, they attacked at once, and he couldn't even keep track of where they were or what they were, it was just strike and parry, try to stop anything that flew towards him, take the blows he couldn't intercept in time, try to protect vital areas and accept, ignore the pain to the backs of his shoulders, the sides of his thighs, to anywhere he could afford to allow a wound that at least wouldn't be crippling too quickly.

For half a second, he could glimpse a neck or something close enough to it, and he took the chance, swinging his arm wide and leaving the entire length of the limb exposed as he put all his weight behind the blow. It bit deep, severing the creature's head, and he spun into it quickly, tightening again to almost embrace the thing that was writhing now, jerking through a dozen forms at once as its blood gushed over him in scalding pulses that burned his skin like acid where they touched.

He could feel his chest and arms blistering, sticking to the cloth of his uniform, skin tearing as he shoved the corpse away, turning to its fellows now – but they were gone, and he didn't bother to look for them. They were at the edge now, and even though the sound was muffled, wrong, choking as it came out of his throat, it was a cry of triumph nonetheless as he buried his blade in folds of white between raised arms.

The man crumpled with a satisfyingly mortal immediacy, and he clamored over the body and into the circle, the thrill of victory's possibility pushing back the pain that now seemed to have overtaken nearly everything. He wasn't the only one, either. Ginny had broken through, her twin knives like extensions of the slender arms that were sleeved red and black to the shoulders, and there was Tuhoy, one arm grossly broken but swinging an ancient double-headed axe in sweeps that made him look more like the hero of a Viking saga than a Celtic myth.

Despite the breach in their ranks – a half-dozen of them down now as more and more of their little army began to push their way through, most still locked in battle, bleeding for every inch – the Diabhal Dubh's followers continued to ignore it all. They moved only to come one by one to the altar, kneeling to lap at the blood and semen that dripped from the edge of the stone and coated her thighs and lower belly before having their turn on her.

For some, it was a perfunctory act, obscene in its very dispassion as they thrust at her body with nearly as much detachment as their victim's vacant gaze, their bodies barely shuddering to completion. But others approached with obvious enjoyment, eyes shining under the masks, every movement hungry.

Those were the ones who slapped, who bit, who tried to force what little reaction they could from her, who slammed in again and again until her body jerked like a marionette, who pushed their fingers down her throat and into her rectum, who grabbed her wrists so hard that they hung wrongly now, swollen and broken and useless even if she had will to use them. They spat on her, they wrote vulgar names across her skin in her own blood, one even urinated on her like an animal marking his territory, but the Diabhal Dubh didn't care about such things. As long as they took their turns and didn't take too long, he only watched, motionless, arms raised, the idol at whose altar they laid their sins.

Neville wanted to kill them all, each and every one, make them suffer things he had not known himself capable of imagining, but breaking the circle itself had made little difference in the fight they still faced. The dark army had followed them in, and he could only watch the horrible events unfolding in flashes as he tried to win each inch of the endless space.

Selfishly, he had wanted to be the one to finally do it, but it did not lessen the thrill when he saw the lean, auburn-haired figure of a wolf vault over the mauled figure of one of the skin and bones things, covering the entire width of the circle in two powerful leaps. Then it coiled, and this time it  _was_ an animal's howl of victory that soared above the cries of battle as Bill tore into the throat of the rapist knelt to begin his turn at Hermione's helpless body.

He had no wand, but Ginny's signal burst vivid blue through the canopy of trees, and Harry's voice sounded almost at once through the earpiece he was taken aback to realize had somehow managed to remain on his head through all of this.

"We see it! Extrication team moving in!"

It was working. Crazy and bloody and so much worse than they had imagined, and Ron and Hermione might never be the same, he knew, but by Merlin they were doing it. Against all the odds, against everything this black devil could conjure and summon, they had broken through, and now all they had to do was hold long enough. And find a way to get to the son-of-a-hag himself, of course, but his rag-tag army was proving match for his boasts as they had been his Master's.

Bill's victim had toppled back, gagging and trying fruitlessly to scream as he scrabbled pathetically at the wolf, but it only meant that he lost fingers as well. All the cruelty of the wolf mixed with the anger of the man to yield nothing even considering mercy, and the attack was as vicious as anything Neville had ever seen, this still-young night's horrors included.

And at last the Diabhal Dubh reacted. His mouth beneath the half-mask bent into a superior, almost amused smirk, and he raised his wand. Instantly, the flaying claws of the wolf became blunt, bitten fingernails, the thick fur a scattering of fine, red-gold curls, and Bill's human face showed only an instant of shocked realization before he died.

Like lovers twisting beneath the sheets, the earth beneath his hands and knees heaved and shivered, then thick roots burst through the dark, rich soil, wrapping his wrists and ankles before he had any chance at all to move. They yanked back into the soil, and Bill was pulled down with them, buried instantly but not at all alive, because they had gone down in the separate directions they had come from in the first place, throwing him flat and casting a heart-beat of unspeakable agony across his expression before his limbs tore off and the roots at his hips and neck pulled his head and stripped torso to their separate graves.

The Diabhal Dubh motioned the next man forward, but his arms remained raised this time, and it was watching the conduction of the apocalypse as the forest itself came to life. From somewhere above, Neville heard the crack of a wand, and the realization came so suddenly that he literally swayed with sick dizziness, barely feeling the living wooden club that slammed him off his feet in the moment's distraction.

He could hear his own cry of pain as he hit the ground, but his eyes were on the tiny sequins of sky that winked between the thrashing branches. The extrication team. They would have to fly straight through the trees. His hand fumbled dully at his waist, trying to find the button of the radio, needing to warn them, but nothing about his own body seemed to be working quite right, and he couldn't feel his fingertips enough to know if he was anywhere close.

Then the single crack became a lightning-storm of them, the trees were snapping and twisting like a thunderstorm, and it was a thunderstorm that came with rain. Rain that seemed black in the firelit night, that was scattered over the whole of the clearing as it flung from the leaves, but as Neville felt it strike his face, hot and thick, he knew that it was red, and he knew the warning would be too late.

He tried to get up again, to re-join the fight, but his body refused to cooperate. Neville's hands slipped in the leaves as he attempted to push up off the sticky, wet-warm forest floor, but all it brought was another burst of pain across his shoulders and a shuddering failure that collapsed him down again. His breath was coming in quick, shallow gasps, bubbling up into the back of his throat, and as he tried a third time, it gagged him, and he only succeeded in making himself vomit, the convulsing heaves bringing tears to his eyes of frustration as much as anything else as he dropped helplessly the few meager inches into his own sick.

The tide had turned, and now with the forest itself risen against them, he could do nothing but watch as their resistance was dashed away.

Ginny's scream drowned in a wet, crunching splatter of sound as a heavy branch stabbed out from behind her, snapping through spine and ribs to protrude from her chest as her back bowed impossibly. The wooden fingers clutched something in their green-tipped hold, something that twitched and poured dark liquid to the earth below, and it was her heart, still beating a few last, determined moments before it was over and the living stake withdrew, dropping her broken body like so much worthless scrap.

The canopy above still shook, the rain of blood thicker now, chunked with things, with pieces of what should have been victory, and most of it was unidentifiable meat and scraps of cloth that flapped down like dying birds, but some of it could still be recognized. Part of an arm. Tattooed, freckled, once-powerful. Nothing now.

There was a crash, a snap of branches, and something plummeted down, the largest yet, and Neville thought at first that it was a body that was almost intact, but then the figure shook itself, rose, and it was Anthony. His uniform hung in shreds, he was bleeding everywhere, his left leg buckling beneath him as he stood, but somehow he did stand, and oh, Merlin, but he'd made it through  _alive._  Even if he had no broom, no wand, even if there was no chance now of fulfilling his task, his dark eyes still blazed as he limped towards the altar.

His lips were moving, and even through the deafening noise of the battle surrounding him, his voice echoed clearly, the words ringing with a power beyond his own, and there was something in his hand, something that flashed silver as he held it out like a weapon towards the Diabhal Dubh. "…of the pestilence that walketh in darkness, nor of the destruction that wasteth at noonday. A thousand may fall at Thy side, and ten thousand at Thy right hand; it shall not come nigh thee –"

The thin mouth beneath the gray beard twisted in fury as if the words were an abomination, and the gnarled wand lashed out, striking Anthony off his feet with a shattering blast. He flew halfway across the circle, skidding to crumple at the feet of one of the white-robed acolytes, but he lay there only a moment before he was on hands and knees, then standing again, turning to approach the altar undeterred. "Only with thine eyes shalt thou behold, and see the recompense –"

But whatever it was that had shielded him from the blast that Neville somehow knew should have been killing, it was no more protection than the red cross on the helmet of the lifeless figure abandoned by the beast that pounced now. The prayer, the incantation, whatever it had been was never completed, and his eyes were empty before he hit the ground, his throat completely torn away.

The edge of the circle burst apart in a flare of green, and now it was Jimmy who had broken through, sprinting towards the Diabhal Dubh, his wand pointed fiercely, the unmarred side of his handsome face as twisted as the scars he bore as he roared his own attack. " _Avada Kedavra!"_

The trees took him. Off his feet and the spell went wide, striking down another, and as the mask fell away from the limp, squat body, Neville felt a moment's surreal satisfaction that at last at least some small justice had been found. Five years a fugitive, but tonight Amycus Carrow had finally paid at the hands of one of his own long-ago victims.

Maher was gutted, his hands abandoning their weapons at last to jerk across his chest and shoulders, to touch his brow as his face tipped almost peacefully towards the sky, his voice shuddering but clear as the werewolves who had felled him clustered rapaciously over their feast. "Forgive me father, for I have sinned…."

Zach fought beyond all human endurance, tearing with his hands when he lost his weapons, too pale, standing in too much blood to still be alive, but fighting, twisting, thrashing and biting and clawing to the very end. But there were at least thirty of the ugly, house-elf sized beings, and numbers were numbers, and no amount of courage could hold forever. He was swallowed like a sweet beneath the black mass of an anthill, and it was only moments before the gibbering little shrieks took on the notes of triumph.

A woman's shrill scream pulled his attention to the edge of the forest, and he should have felt so much more when he saw it was Hannah, but it was as if his heart had gone as numb as he wished his body would. It was all too much, all just too much, and it was as if he stood in calm observation of another man's fantastic hallucination as he watched her struggle in the crushing grasp of a gray-skinned cycloptic giant.

It made no move to kill, but merely held her, grinning stupidly, as another monster approached. It was one of the woman-things, almost seven feet tall and delicate as a dancer, her body beautiful beneath gauzy robes, but her face that of a maggot-infested corpse as the black, swollen tongue slid over the decaying lips and then dipped to his wife's chest.

She shrieked as the fangs pierced her breast, and then her head jerked back, and her whole body went rigid as she began to transform. It was like watching time pour itself out in a stream of poison over her pretty face, the youthful softness of her cheeks falling instantly sallow and slack, her hair streaking gray, then white, then falling out in clumps, her firm limbs shrinking and shriveling, and she fell through middle age into dotage and for a moment she was a crone, older than the hills. Then rheumy eyes sank entirely, tissue skin became leather, and now  _she_ was the corpse, decayed and worm-eaten, half-mummified, at last a dried husk, little more than a skeleton ten thousand years old.

The she-demon lifted away, the crimson lips she licked again as full and beautiful as the life they had stolen. Hannah's body was allowed to drop, and her skull burst to a puff of dust as the giant's feet crushed it in lumbering for the next victim.

Across the circle, his eyes caught for a moment with Ron's, and the flash of awful understanding that passed between them was almost palpable. Relentless wills trapped under broken and cowardly bodies. Neville reached out to the other man, almost not recognizing his own hand that stretched out like the thrust of a corpse from the grave, skin black-blistered and peeling from his fingers, his forearm laced with scarlet cracks and patches of fused cloth. He tried to speak, but nothing coherent emerged, though his mouth still formed around the words.

_I'm sorry._

Faintly, incredibly, Ron smiled, and the copper head nodded faintly in sympathetic impotence as his own lips traced their silent, tongueless reply.  _Thank you._

Then something crashed down into the back of his head, flaring shocking white across his vision that should have been livid with the pain of it, but it was for an instant only. Distantly, he heard himself cry out, but it was less a sound of protest than a sob of relief as it finally, gratefully all came to an end in the peaceful, devouring darkness.


	16. Oweynagat

"Hesh now, Fearless Leader. Not a moan, not a word. If ya could keep your mouth shut while the flesh were bein' whipped off your back, ya can do it now, and best be."

The words floated in a gentle, lilting whisper through the nothingness, gusted against his ear in what should have been warm breath, but felt like a cool wind instead. Consciousness faded in slowly, bringing with it pain, so much pain, but he obeyed the command, biting down on his lips and refusing to allow a single sound to whimper through, though he didn't yet really know why it seemed so very important.

Carefully, as if even the tiny movement might bring more pain or a rebuke from the source of the strangely familiar voice, he eased his eyes open. It didn't hurt, much to his surprise, but what it revealed certainly did.

He was staring directly into the blank, clouded gaze of a corpse. The face was only inches from his own, mauled and macabre, but he recognized the tough, stocky little Irish Auror nonetheless. Callahan. And beyond him, someone thin, sprawled, equally motionless, the still-tidy red hair like a tongue of flame on the dark forest floor. Percy.

This time a groan did escape beyond his control, little more than a whimper, but this was pain that was so much more than physical and so much more than he could hope to hold back. It was real, then. No nightmare, no hallucination, no mistake. His own injuries should have been proof enough, but any lingering doubts were cruelly cast away by the sight of the bodies that spoke of a battle continued – and a price paid – beyond his own aborted memory.

Something traced over his cheek, cold and tingling, and he turned his head as much as he dared, ridiculously almost hoping that the inhuman touch belonged to something come to finish the job. It would be as good as not true then, no matter what. Either it would simply end, or he would be with Hannah, with his friends, surrounded by loved ones rather than by failure.

Neville's vision wavered a moment, blurring and doubling, but when it settled again, the face that leaned over him was unmistakable. Seamus. And yet not. The other man was completely translucent now, the tall, black lines of the deceptively motionless trees clearly visible through him, his body radiating an eerie, silver-blue glow, but there was just the hint of a warm tint to his skin, traces of gold in his hair, the heightened brilliance of the blue that latticed up his face and held him fractionally apart from being identical to the ghosts he knew so familiarly from Hogwarts. But then again, those had been dead for hundreds of years. Perhaps this was simply what they looked like when they were fresh?

Getting enough breath for the words was a struggle, and keeping it quiet was not an issue as he barely managed to push the thin rasp past his lips. "Are you --?"

"I aint dead, if that's what you're meanin', Fearless Leader." The glimmering lips quirked into a bit of a smile, his cheek dimpling shadow in its own light. "But I ain't live, neither, and that ain't for ya to worry.  _You're_ live, and thanks for that. Means at least someone'll get away to tell what happened here."

"Then…?"

"Every blessed one. Couldn't lay a hand on me, bein's I am now, but ah, it were a sorry, bloody thing. Me own fault, all o' it, lead ya to your deaths, I did, but I'll be puttin' that right now that I've power enough, and you'll be carryin' the tale, so lie away." The chill hand pressed against his chest, pushing him needlessly to the ground he hadn't even begun to rise from, and he smiled again as he traced his fingers in a gentle caress across Neville's devastated body. Where they passed, it felt as though skin and tissue were turning inside out somehow, and he shivered, gasping involuntarily.

Seamus was healing him. Wandlessly. Wordlessly.

Those ghostly fingers eased the burned and cracked arms to a faint tan lightly dusted in dark hair, made torn-leather lips smooth and pliant, knit deep slashes and tears to muscles that would do his bidding again, lifted the pounding agony from shoulders he thought broken forever under the load he had taken on. His chest still felt thick and heavy, his head still swam as if he were atop a very high mountain, but the breaths he sucked in no longer stabbed any deeper, and he felt his mouth drop open in shocked gratitude. "How --?"

"Tried me best with the others, but fair gone they were," the statement was pragmatic, but the expression in Seamus' eyes was not. He had never imagined such pure guilt could exist, and he wanted suddenly to reach out and soothe his friend, even as he knew that it was too late. On so many levels.

"Can ya sit up?" Seamus made a cautioning gesture, and Neville realized that he was crouched low, as if hiding from something, and for the first time, he began to notice his surroundings beyond the mere death toll they held.

The trees had indeed returned to their natural state as if they had been there for a thousand years, but the trunks and low branches were still spattered with the truth of their recent role as mindless assassins, and here and there, bodies still hung impaled like warning scarecrows overseeing the crops of hell. What he had thought was just the pounding of his own aching head was the drumbeats that had resumed again, and there was a richer quality to the darkness, a brightness to the stars through the canopy that suggested that it had been hours since sunset.

Bodies were everywhere, shattered and strewn, but as he forced himself to look in vain hope of finding the slight movement of a survivor Seamus might have missed, he realized something else, and he turned back, frowning. "Where are the others?  _Their_ dead?"

"Well, that's the question, now," Seamus replied cryptically. "Can ya call them dead?" He looked where his friend had motioned, and his eyes widened in horrified disbelief.

The circle was a little tighter now, depleted by as many as twenty, but within, the Diabhal Dubh stood in front of the altar that now held the blackened and carved remains of a human carcass whose identity he knew all too well. Hermione was nowhere to be seen, but all attention was focused on the bonfire and the cauldron within.

It was filled to and beyond the brim with a liquid he could not identify, more viscous than water but just as clear, sending no scent into the air that could combat the smell of the fire and the stench of death as it boiled frantically, foaming up and over to send steam as thick as stormclouds to mingle with the smoke. There were creatures emerging. The very creatures he had fought – they had all fought – interspersed with the white-robed men missing from the circle itself. He could see Amycus Carrow, apparently unharmed as he scrambled out of the high-sided vessel with the help of one of the werewolves whose distinctive white-patched face he had  _seen_ Ginny tear apart with her knives. Alive. All alive.

Fury pounded against futility as he started to get to his feet, hands scrabbling the dirt for his wand, for a discarded knife, a gun, something,  _anything_ …but he was pushed down again with a strength he had not imagined a mere shade could possess, and Seamus' voice was a tight, enraged hiss of warning. " _No!"_

"It's not  _fair!"_ It was a child's argument, he knew, and he felt all the more ridiculous for the tears that choked it, but it  _wasn't_ fair. That they should die, that so many lives should be  _wasted_ completely against an enemy that somehow had a way around death itself….

Then he stopped, feeling his pale cheeks flush with new hope as he met Seamus' eyes again, grabbing straight through the spectral wrist so eagerly that the electric tingle didn't even matter. "We  _need_  that thing! Whatever it is, if  _we_ can –"

"Oh, aye." There was a caustic twist to the nodded agreement, and he jerked his head towards the circle with its reborn army of monsters. "Use Bran's Cauldron, there's a fair idea. 'Cept that what he's got comin' out there ain't got the power o' speech nor thought o' their own, so if ya ain't mindin' that wee detail…."

"Then…" the disappointment came with the force of a near-mortal wound. "They're just Infiri."

"By any other name."

"Then what --?" Neville hesitated, the question catching for a moment on the sight of Demelza's body curled in a last, useless protective embrace over one of the Muggle fighters before he shook it off and made himself continue. "What are you going to do? What's this that I'm supposed to witness?"

"Why, Fearless Leader, I'm goin' to do what a thing the likes o' me does best…I'm goin' to avenge some restless fallen."

Before he could respond, Seamus had risen, walking calmly again to the edge of the circle and through it, passing through the body of the nearest man as if the flesh and bone were merely illusion. Neville wanted to stand, to shout him back, but he didn't, making himself cling to the directive to bear witness. If there was nothing more he could do now, he would at least do that, whatever it meant.

"Sorry t'interrupt your fine party," Seamus announced into the stunned silence that had interrupted the steady drumming. "But I wanted to have a word with the host about how he treated some o' his guests tonight. Not quite hospitable, it weren't."

The masked face showed no surprise as the Diabhal Dubh turned from his resurrected army to face this impertinent intruder, and indeed, his mocking smile matched Seamus' own. "Finnigan? Ain't this a pleasure, boy." His grey head tilted curiously, and one hand raised to stroke his beard. "But you're lookin' a bit different, ya are. Do sommat to your hair?"

"Feck yourself," Seamus spat. "I ain't afraid o' ya no more." He glanced contemptuously at the handful of dark creatures that had begun to move towards him. "Can't harm me's I am now."

"Taken your little game to heart, then? Become a Sluagh, agent of vengeance, hung yourself between life and death, this world and the next forevermore. Hell o' a thing, that. Ain't one in a hundred thousand with the passion for't, there ain't." His tone was too calm, and Neville could hear his own pulse speeding more rapidly in his ears as he watched the confrontation from what seemed the same edge of tense astonishment as the Diabhal Dubh's own followers.

The dark wizard strode forward until he was only an arm's length away, but Seamus held his ground, staring up at his enemy with nothing but defiant hate etched across every taut inch of his body. The instant hung suspended, ready to erupt into  _something_  that he wasn't sure he wanted to imagine, but then the black-gloved hand shot out, and Seamus' eyes flared in shock as it closed over the tattooed throat in a chokehold that was all too substantial as he was lifted bodily off his feet. The Diabhal Dubh pulled him in until their faces were only an inch apart, close enough to kiss, but his voice carried to all of them. "But ya ain't quite up to it, are ya, boy? Far enough to sparkle lovely, to shake off me lads, but ya ain't the thing proper yet, and there's still enough o' ya mortal to squeeze good and hard. Somethin' still tetherin' ya, ain't there? Somethin' ya don't have the balls to let go all the way."

He shook him like a dog with a rat, and the transparent fingers clawed helplessly at the hand locked at his neck as his feet kicked at nothing, the glow fading and his body becoming more and more solid again as his face began to purple under the relentless strangulation. A low chuckle rumbled from the pit of the Diabhal Dubh's chest as he watched his victim's struggles, then he raised his other hand to the gaping, gasping mouth. "I'll have the truth, I will."

His fingers pushed between Seamus' lips, and when they withdrew again, trails of something as silvery liquid-solid as memory hung from them, and he examined the dripping tendrils for a moment before casting them towards the fire. He allowed Seamus to drop, and he fell to his knees, clutching at his throat as he shook his head in abject disbelief, trying to comprehend what had just happened to him.

The silvery strands hit the flames, and like the ghosts of the seers in the Department of Mysteries, faint, shadowy figures began to arise in the smoke, distorting and fading almost immediately, but still recognizable. Kate Finnigan. Susan, a faceless child cradled in her arms. Luna. Neville himself.

There were others, too, but they were ignored as the Diabhal Dubh spun abruptly, his eyes livid with anger, and Neville's hand tightened on the wand he had only just recovered, but it was too late. An unseen force seized him, yanking him into the air and hurling him through the shadows and into the glare of the firelight to fall unceremoniously at the monster's feet. He shook himself, trying to get his feet back under him, but he was already being jerked upright, held at attention by invisible bonds as the Diabhal Dubh stalked a tight, ominous circle around his newly discovered prey. For a moment, his expression promised pain so much more than what he had watched Ron endure, then the grizzled head tipped, and he chuckled almost boyishly.

"Shoulda listened to that pig, Amycus, I 'spose. Told me ya were a tough little bastard, not to underestimate ya. Seems ya were a thorn in his side a few years back, weren't ya?" Neville did not answer, and the genial manner vanished instantly, his half-visible face contorting in rage again. " _WEREN'T YA?"_

Neville paused for a long moment, then nodded slowly, as if he had to search his memory carefully to recall such a minor detail. "I might have been, come to think of it."

"Shoulda killed ya from the start," he shook his head, remonstrating himself for the annoying error, then shrugged, reaching down to the altar to yank the long, wicked knife from Ron's stripped chest. "But no matter. Looks like we've been gifted two more before the night's –"

A low, fragile moan interrupted him, and as he turned, Neville could at last see Hermione from his new, questionably privileged vantage at the heart of the circle. She was curled on the ground like a discarded doll, her back to him, but her head had lifted, her arms clutched in tighter, and she moaned again, louder this time. It was followed by a wracking cough that doubled her down all the tighter, scattering a spray of blood in the firelight, then she twisted, and Neville gasped in shock as the flickering light outlined her body more clearly.

The words they had scrawled, the bruises they had left were still there, her hands still dangled like the wings of a crippled bird, blood and semen still formed an awful crust across her inner thighs and the lower part of her belly, but it was a belly that curved as full and heavy as if months had past, not hours, flushed and swollen and throbbing faintly with something so unnatural that he recoiled. Her broken hands skimmed it weakly, and the dark eyes rose, still somewhat vague but slowly unpeeling layers of sickening realization that brought emotions too agonizing to watch. Her voice sounded dusty and unused, the words slurred as she blinked up at her captor. "No…I don….whas…."

"Congratulations, m'lady," the two wizards seemed forgotten for the time being as the Diabhal Dubh bowed towards Hermione in a repugnantly gracious gesture, reaching down to take her elbow and lift her to her feet. She swayed, her knees buckling beneath her, but he caught her before she could fall, his embrace as gentle as any lover's. With a flick of his fingers, her robes changed, and they were no longer the tattered and abused scraps of white, but heavy wool in rich green, beautifully embroidered with fruits and flowers as the luxurious fabric clung in modest accentuation to every new curve. Her hair grew back in an instant, glossier and the curls in tamer ringlets than he had ever seen before, and her skin was whisked clean as he helped her to sit at the edge of the altar that still held her fiance's mutilated and cannibalized remains.

Her mouth was hanging open, her hands now fully healed as they traced the outline of her belly, the folds of the robes in a stunned incomprehension that was only partially the lingering effects of the drug. "I don unnerstan." Hermione's voice was the soft, befuddled plea of a little girl, and it was in its own way a further indignity for Neville to see the witch who had always been one of the sharpest minds he had ever encountered reduced to the helpless whimpers of a lost child.

In reply, the Diabhal Dubh knelt at her feet, taking her hands in both of his and laying his forehead on them in a perverted display of fealty, but his words were not directed at her at all, and they had the rote thrum of ritual. "Life from death, rebirth from destruction. The knife pierces and the chalice flows. The child born here shall be the culmination of our power, our triumph over those who sought to destroy us, who thought us wiped from the earth. But the earth has memory, and at midnight the old God shall die and at dawn the older Gods shall rise in a world beyond our wildest dreams."

He released her hands, and his own crackled as he revealed the knife that gleamed there as he held it out to her, and now his smile was cruel, mocking, his words spat to cut and shred into the brown eyes already brimming with tears. "The upshot o' that, lovely, is that the dinner leavin's you're sittin' besides are your precious Ronnie, that ya lay for every man Jack o' us like a common whore, suckin' down cock's well's I've ever seen done and legs spread t' the sky. And any minute now, ya'll be feelin' the first pains, 'cause you'll be laborin' from midnight to dawn on the one what's gonna destroy your whole sweet, ignorant world, and ain't a damned thing your fool tears can do about it, ya silly piece o' minge." And he spat on her.

With a scream of blind, agonized hate, Hermione snapped up the knife from his hands, and as she reared it back, Neville threw himself forward as hard as he could, feeling the invisible bonds snap under his enemy's distraction. The Diabhal Dubh had already tipped his head, baring his neck to the slicing blow, and he had to stop her, because he understood now. She was  _supposed_ to kill him, kill him so somehow, in some sick way she could give birth to him again in only hours, in some form that would be disaster beyond imagining, but oh, Merlin, he was too far away to reach her in nothing but the lash of an arm!

"Hermione,  _no!"_

But the desperate cry was too late. The slash of the knife flew to – and  _past_ – the bared throat, and she flung it into the fire, leaping to her feet with an agility that stopped him dead in his tracks. Her eyes were clear. More than clear, they were shining not with any drug, but a mixture of hate and pain and thrilling victory ten thousand times more toxic. A smirk played smugly over her mouth, and Neville suddenly realized that she'd been faking it, that she'd come out from under the drug long ago, and he couldn't even imagine what kind of courage it had taken to lay there without moving, without showing any sign of the gradual dawning of what had been done to her, what was moving, growing, feeding inside her body as her mind slowly cleared.

Her chin drew up, her shoulders thrust back, and she tore the elaborate robes away in contempt. She was naked again, swollen with the thing that was twisting visibly under the skin as if sensing its unwilling mother's intent, but she somehow didn't look like a victim at all, and as she took a deliberate step back towards the bonfire, her newly-long hair caught the sparks, erupting into a halo of flame that completed the surreal image of the ravaged Goddess. Hermione did not react to the wreath of flame that surrounded her, and if she felt the pain of it, there was no sign of anything but satisfaction in her voice as she spoke strongly, clearly, and with perfect sanity. "I am not yours to use."

Before anyone could even gather enough understanding of what had happened in the first place to think of stopping her, she had thrown herself into the flames. The Diabhal Dubh reached forward, his own scream echoing terribly, but the fire that soared up around her was too intense, and he was forced to draw back from its cursed power, shielding his face as from somewhere in the inferno, a woman's ghostly laugh mocked him in the crackle and roar.

Then someone had his arm, yanking him out of his stunned immobility, and he was hurtling towards the flames himself, and he caught only a glimpse of Seamus' face – and he couldn't tell if he was still shining of his own accord or if it was just the light of the fire, because it was blinding, the blaze searing in agony as intense and mind-tearing as the Sorting Hat's curse, and he could see the yawning mouth of the cauldron in the middle of it all, a ring of dark stone that was  _glowing_  with the incredible heat, and at least it wouldn't take long.

Burning to death or boiling to death, it was all the same, and he refused his own body's demands to try and escape, to turn back as they plunged together into the roiling, churning surface of the unknown liquid. Hermione had been right, and he was glad that Seamus at least had kept his head enough to use that split-second opportunity to follow her lead.

They had lost everything, but at least they wouldn't be used.

He had expected the searing, drowning immersion, the scalding pain, the harsh impact of their headfirst plunge into the unyielding bottom of the huge cauldron, but it didn't happen that way. There was no pain at all once they broke the surface, indeed the liquid was no warmer than a pleasant bath, and though they passed through it quickly, there  _was_ no bottom, and the gasp of shock brought only a rush of cool air to his lips as they continued to plummet far, far too long.

The orange light of the flames vanished as well, and it was the brilliant blue of a summer sky surrounding him now, lush emerald green speeding up to meet him. Neville was beyond confused, nothing at all was happening as it rightfully should have, but he maintained just enough of his wits to twist in mid-air, landing hard but not badly and managing to roll out of the impact and up to his knees again with nothing more than the wind knocked out of him.

A few feet away, he could see Seamus likewise gathering himself, as apparently solid and plainly mortal now as he ever had been, his face reflecting a look of stunned bemusement undoubtedly mirrored on his own. Neville took a deep breath – and his lungs seemed abruptly clear, but in all of this, that hardly mattered – pushing the hair back from his eyes as he got carefully to his feet. He was ready for the stab of a broken bone, a nasty sprain from their fall, but he wasn't even bruised, and he frowned at the impossible luck of it as he turned to the other wizard. "Where the hell are we?"

"No idea, Fearless Leader." Seamus reached for his belt, his fingers closing a moment on the hilt of his knife, but then he seemed to think better of it, though his shoulders remained taut. "D'ya s'pose we've died, then? This is afters? Thought it'd hurt more, meself, but can't say I've done it proper afore."

"Me neither," Neville confessed. "But maybe we did."

The idea was bizarre, but as he looked around, he had to admit that there was something unnaturally idyllic about the place. The air was too perfectly comfortable, stirring with exactly the right amount of gentle breeze and scented with just enough trace of wildflowers to be sweet yet not at all cloying. The wide, rolling fields were a deeper green than anything he had ever seen in nature, and the forest that crowned the distant hills and the little brook running down from them could have been laid leaf and pebble by an artist's brush. It did indeed seem plausible enough as an afterlife, but something about it just didn't ring true, and he felt oddly ashamed of himself as he realized what it was.

It was simply all too  _Irish._ As much as he cared about Seamus and as deeply as he'd recently gotten himself sucked into the concerns of the other man's homeland, Neville was British, fully and proudly. If he had died, shouldn't it be the vast moors and bright patchwork gardens of Yorkshire surrounding him rather than this glorified landscape of Ulster?

And where was his grandfather, who had promised to be waiting someday on the other side? Where were his fallen friends? Where was  _Hannah,_ whose loss he had barely had time to process, but with whom the idea of reunion had made his intended sacrifice almost welcome? They were completely alone, as far as he could see, and he bent down, plucking a blade of the thick, soft grass and rolling it between his fingers as he tried to gather his thoughts.

As he examined it more closely, he realized something else that had been niggling at him just beyond proper consciousness. The grass wasn't just too dark, too healthy, it was too  _mature_ for the very beginning of May, the trees too heavily leaved, none blossoming, and deep purple-pink flowers…

"Whatcha pluckin' daisies for? This ain't the bloody time to be gatherin' a bouquet, ya –"

He held up the little stem, cutting off Seamus' scornful admonition firmly. "This is Great Willowherb.  _Epilobium hirsutum._ It shouldn't  _begin_ blooming for another full month, and it shouldn't be this prolific until mid-August." Neville tossed it down, then pointed around them in the field, completely confident in his knowledge of this much at least. "Speedwell…that's a  _winter_  flower. Too early for the Bell Heather, too, but the Dog-Violet should be on the  _end_ of its season."

Seamus nodded slowly, understanding beginning to dawn. "So 'tis all lovely, but you're sayin' they ain't s'posed to be here…wherever here is."

"More  _whenever_  here is," Neville corrected him. "They're all native to Ireland, pretty common wildflowers, actually, so it's just the timing that's so far off."

"Maybe we're –" Seamus stopped, his eyes widening, and this time he didn't check himself as the knife snapped out of its sheath, held lightly and ready in front of him as he jerked his head in a warning gesture. "The trees!"

Those two words shouldn't have held such grinding, pounding terror, but after the carnage they had witnessed only hours before, panic wadded a tight knot into Neville's throat, his heart seeming to beat against it like a caged animal as he whirled, snatching for his own weapon. It was gone. The Muggle gun had been discarded in the fight, he knew, but his wand, oh his wand must still be at Druim Cett!

His hands balled into fists, and he was poised on his toes, ready to dodge, to strike back, ready for what he knew he could probably never be ready for at all, but there was no attack. Instead, the distant treeline simply parted, branches arching to form a doorway that looked at once natural and sculpted; an arbor so perfect that he could almost hear the faint, envious sigh of the magical young gardener somewhere behind the enforced soldier.

There was a person emerging, clad in a pale, flowing garment, but whether it was male or female, friend or foe, Neville couldn't tell from this distance. He had never quite needed glasses, but his vision wasn't the sharpest at long-range. Seamus, however, had always had the keenest eyesight in their year, and the look on his face suggested that whoever it was, it was not someone he had expected either.

To Neville's surprise, the freckled cheeks had flushed boyishly pink, and he slipped the knife back into its sheath instantly, smoothing his long hair back to fall neatly behind his shoulders as he licked his lips. "Holy…" he murmured in what sounded like awe. "May I be buggered sideways and with great fervor by a herd o' dragons if that ain't the --"

"Seamus," Neville couldn't keep the laugh entirely from his voice as he interrupted, but there was an undertone of seriousness to it as well. "Everything  _I_ know about magic has taken some major hits in the last few days. Do you  _really_ want to invoke that, even by accident?"

There was a moment's pause, then the sandy head nodded matter-of-factly, and he returned a dry chuckle of his own. "True 'nuff." He glanced towards the sky, and Neville could swear he gave the cloudless blue half a wink. "I didn't mean that, ya know. Ya can save all your frisky dragons for if Charlie Weasley'll be headin' this way. Me, I'll take the lass."

The trees had closed again, showing no sign of ever having moved in the first place, and now that the figure had begun to come closer, Neville felt his jaw drop open, and he couldn't keep himself from staring openly. It was, in fact, a woman, but although he couldn't really think of what words  _would_  be appropriate, 'lass' seemed woefully insufficient.

He loved Hannah, he really did, but as much as the other men had teased him about, he hadn't just married the first girl he'd really dated. They had both agreed to take a few months apart after the Battle of Hogwarts, to give themselves a chance to avoid making a mistake in the first flush of survival, and he had been young and suddenly famous and in the best shape of his life and…well, it hadn't been a lonely few months. He'd had his pick of gorgeous young witches, and he had said yes to more than he honestly liked to remember these days, even if he had realized that Hannah was the only one he'd really loved, the only one who understood, the only one he wanted to spend the rest of his life with. He wasn't at all naïve, but this woman….

She wasn't very tall, but she carried herself like someone of stature, serene and regal, her robes long and of some kind of delicate, pale-blue material that rippled with the slightest motion and made her seem to float towards them across the grass like a boat across the mirrored surface of a lake. Her hair reached nearly to her knees, the purest gold he had ever seen, her skin pale and agelessly smooth but just kissed with enough of the sun's color to keep her from looking sickly or fragile.

There was nothing fragile about her at all. She wasn't heavy, but her body was too feminine to be called slender – her hips full and round, curving out explosively from a waist almost waspishly narrow, and the dip of her neckline exposed cleavage equally abundant. Her face could make a Veela weep with envy, and never had he imagined someone so stunningly beautiful in his wildest adolescent fantasies…but to his slowly dawning surprise, he felt no sexual desire for her whatsoever.

Instead, it was  _Hannah_  he suddenly ached for, whose skin he could all but taste on his lips, whose touch came to him in a rush of memory so vivid he almost moaned aloud. It was as if this woman, this  _whatever_  she was did not so much possess everything that was beautiful about women as she  _carried_ it, and it brought to memory details of his wife's body that he had never really noticed or appreciated before. The subtle sheen of her fingernails. The invisible velvet down along the curve of her ear against his tongue.

She had reached them now, and he shook himself, trying to recover enough to say something, even as he noticed with some satisfaction that his normally all-too-loquacious friend was similarly struck dumb. As his mouth opened and closed on the empty sentences, she smiled at them in obvious understanding, dipping her head in a gracious suggestion of a bow as she extended one hand, palm down. " _Failte, lucht siuil_."

The gesture was familiar enough to snap Seamus out of it, or perhaps it was merely the ability to understand the language, but he dropped abruptly to his knees, taking her hand reverently in his and pressing his lips to the very tips of her fingers. " _Bandia."_

Her smile widened slightly, kindly, but her next words were in English as her eyes rose to meet Neville's. "I am Cliodna, keeper o' this realm. Ya and your friend may name yourselves welcome in the Oweynagat."

The pronouncement was spoken as if they were being bestowed a gift, and Neville paused before he said anything, trying carefully not to come across as rude or ungrateful. "With all due respect, ma'am, would you mind telling us exactly what that means? Honestly, Seamus and I thought we were kind of committing suicide by throwing ourselves into the fire. I have no idea how we've ended up in your Oweynagat."

Cliodna laughed lightly, and he felt embarrassed even for the obvious question by the rather condescending look in her eyes. "If you'd been tryin' to come here, child, you'd have been all's dead as ya thought you'd be, and likewise if you'd just passed into the flames like that brave girl he were tryin' to use. But ya chose the Cauldron instead, and that is where the difference lay. There are very few gateways to the Oweynagat, but none that can be used by any who intend to come here from the world o' men. This is the Otherworld, the land o' the Faye."

"Then we  _are_ dead," Seamus said quietly.

"Not at all," she corrected him. "This isn't an afterlife, and those who've properly died are in a place o' their own."

Seamus considered this, then looked up towards the sky, as if expecting to see some kind of door they had entered through, his hand fingering the knife's hilt again almost wistfully. "Then can we leave again?"

"If ya truly want to," she admitted. "Though I'd not be so hasty." An edge of gentle warning had come into her tone now, but it wasn't lost on either of them. "It is not every day a Goddess allows ya to pass beyond the places o' men, and ya may wish consider why fate gave ya such a chance."

Neville's eyes widened as he looked at her anew, as if expecting now to see some new evidence of her extraordinary claim. "A  _Goddess?_ "

"Aye, she's a Goddess," Seamus snapped at him caustically, "Don't ya know naught? Goddess o' the sea, o' beauty, o' the otherworld…d'ya know me as a man who'll drop t'me knees for just anyone?"

"I'm sorry if I insulted you," it was directed at both of them, but there was frustration under the genuine apology as well. "I'm  _not_ Irish, Seamus. This isn't my place, it isn't my people – I'm sorry, but it isn't my  _religion –_ and I'm not sure if I want to stay, either. I have a life in that 'world of men.'"

"Ah, such a life," Cliodna challenged. "Your wife dead, your friends and comrades dead, your grandmother far aged, a lot o' questions waitin' for ya at a job ya despise, likely's not be branded as a criminal yourself, and that's not even speakin' o' the Diabhal Dubh."

"It's still my world," Neville replied fiercely, although hearing it all laid out like that hurt more than he wanted to admit, even to himself.

"And if you're wantin' to return to it, ya may," she made a sweeping gesture with one hand, and a stone archway appeared out of thin air, the door a wall of flame so intense that he could feel the heat even from almost thirty feet away. "There's your way, if ya choose. Back and through to the flames and the death ya wished. Or ya may stay for now. Listen. The door will never close if ya want it, though you'll not always see it."

It was more of a temptation than he had expected. Even knowing it would lead him directly to his death, there was something intoxicating about the simplicity of that option. No more confusion, no more questions, no more fear or fighting, just peace, his  _own_ peace, whatever that meant. If it was nothing more than empty blackness, if it was the arms of his loved ones, even being reborn to another life as the Patil twins had once talked about, it would be  _easy_ , and oh, he couldn't remember the last time anything had just been  _easy._

He actually took a step towards the flaming doorway before he felt the hand on his arm, and Seamus' eyes were an honest plea as they looked up into his, his voice hushed. "Please, Neville. Stay for just a little while, will ya? I need ya."

"You…?" The admission was so unexpected that he couldn't finish the statement, blinking incredulously at the vulnerability in the hardened features.

"You're sane and you're good, and I'm not trustin' meself to neither these days," he confessed frankly. "I don't want be keepin' ya from the arms o' your Hannah, but  _please_ , just stay 'til we know a bit more, and let me look to ya for what's right be doin'."

The trust was humbling, a little frightening, but he couldn't just turn his back on it, and he found himself nodding, squeezing Seamus' shoulder firmly. "All right. I'll stay, but I don't know how much help I'll be. This isn't my world. I don't even know if we're still wizards here."

"Oh, that ya are," Cliodna supplied calmly. "But not in the way you're accustomed to. You've not your wands, either of ya, but even if ya did, you'd find them meaningless. Our magic isn't about makin' things bend to your will, but about connectin' yourself to them so that your will is theirs."

"That makes no sense."

She motioned towards his legs, no trace of offense on her lovely face. "How do ya walk, child?"

"I…" he hesitated, then shrugged. "I just  _do_ , I guess. One foot in front of the other."

"Your magic is orderin' each muscle to contract, one by one, puttin' a spell for your balance and a spell to each toe to grip the earth and a spell to your arms to swing a rhythm. Ours is the music that closes your eyes and your feet just  _dance_ without a thought to how _."_

She folded her hands in front of herself, clearly satisfied with the explanation, but Neville wasn't so easily appeased. He had never been good with the vague or the mystical, and her metaphor was exactly the kind of almost-makes-sense thing that had always driven him a bit mental about some of the Ravenclaws. He had never cared about defining the concept of 'chair' if he had something to sit on. "Then what you're saying is that we can't do magic."

"Most every infant can walk, but none's born knowin' how."

He frowned, tilting his head as he glanced at Seamus, finding no cue in the unreadable expression. "Is that what we are to you? Infants?"

"I've known your people since a thousand years before the Romans came to dub them Britons," she replied. "Time means nothin' here, but yes, to me, you're younger than the mornin' dew."

He wanted to feel insulted at that, but the look Seamus gave him quashed it at once. His friend looked on the edge of losing his temper, but it wasn't the anger that made him squirm, but the disappointment that fueled it. As if he'd failed to live up to the trust only so freshly extended to him. "Maybe she ain't your Goddess – and for that matter, I ain't precise believin' in the old religion meself, for all's I know o' what I believe o' anythin' anymore – but ya don't need be talkin' to her like a bloody suspect. We  _don't_ know why we survived. Have a bit o' respect, will ya?"

Neville sighed, feeling his shoulders slump a little under the all-too-fair rebuke. "You're right." He took a deep breath, and it felt awkward and wrong and even a little dangerous, but he bowed his head as he lowered himself to his knees on the verdant ground. "My apologies, ma'am. I'm grateful that you…well, I guess saved our lives, really, by letting us into your world, and my friend and I would be honored to accept your hospitality for the time being."

Her laugh was sweet but strange, more the trill of a songbird than a woman's giggle. "I take no insult, child. Were ya standin' the two o' ya in Avalon and it were Viviane who met ya, I doubt your friend would take it half as gracious."

"Then…" Neville hesitated, trying to find words for the strange whisper of a thrill that had shivered through him at some level so deep he couldn't even assure himself it was real. "There's another…."

"Your Avalon is as real as our Oweynagat, the Gods and Goddesses o' the Britons as real as those o' the Celts."

"But what about Aiden? Kevin?" This time it was Seamus who couldn't contain his curiosity, though his voice remained more deferential than Neville knew he was capable of. "Their God ain't the kind fancies sharin'."

"And perhaps I am a part o' their God or their God is a part o' me, or we are apart from it wholly, or we may all be too small to know, or ya may find ya answer that yourself in your own time." Her hands fluttered dismissively, and Seamus seemed, if not satisfied, at least settled for the time being. "But there will be time – that there'll ever be – and ya need to rest."

Her hands spread wide, sparkling light falling from the palms like a soft rain to the fields below. Where the light came to rest, everything seemed to fog and shimmer, then all at once, they were surrounded by a dozen creatures that had materialized silently, unfolding from the earth itself.

They were every bit as strange and foreign as the creatures the Diabhal Dubh had used as his dark army, but in every way that they had radiated evil and wrong, these beings emanated all that was right and natural in magic. They were tall and lithe, at first glance very like human, but their flesh was like milked glass, smooth and flawless to the point where he could see his own reflection faintly in the sculpted features, their eyes like the dark, liquid gaze of a hind, and there was little distinction between male and female in their timeless beauty. Their hair was long and wild, but like their clothing, it was not formed of individual strands. Instead, they were clad and crowned in a tangle of stems and leaves that issued seamlessly from that glassine skin, each one different.

He could recognize ash and alder, oak and elm, wild rose and gorse, saxifrage and sorrel among others. They moved without visible joints, flowing like the arch and sway of saplings in the wind, and there was no fear or trepidation at all as their cool fingers began to smooth against the blood-soaked and charred tatters of his uniform with hushed murmurs of sympathy in words he couldn't understand.

"The Sidhe will take good care o' ya," Cliodna promised gently. "You'll be fed, bathed, given new clothes, and if ya still harbor wounds, they shall be healed as if a cruel hand had never laid upon either o' ya. You've seen dark and terrible things, you've fought hard, and you're exhausted more than perhaps I think ya know yourselves. After you've rested, there'll be time for more questions, and your heads'll be clearer for the answers."

Part of him wanted the answers now, wanted to continue pressing with the thousand questions he had and the thousand more he knew those would bring, and it seemed like just sleep would be impossible after what they had been through, certainly without nightmares that would make it anything but restful. Yet as the Sidhe lay their hands on him, it was as if all the exhaustion Cliodna had spoken of came down in a single, smothering wave, and it was all he could do to keep will enough to speak at all. "But you will tell us what's going on…why we're here? You promise?"

"Aye, child." She kissed the tips of her fingers, pressing them softly to his lips, and all at once, the fear, the uncertainty, the edges of the unrealized grief all vanished, and although he still knew very little about what it was they had found themselves entangled in now, there was, at least, if nothing else, peace for now. He  _could_  rest, and yes, he supposed, whether or not she was a Goddess, she was right about that much. He needed it more than he had ever guessed.


	17. Fomorians and Fae

The Sidhe spoke very little, and what words they did utter were not in English, but their tone was gentle, and their touch was kind as they lead the two young men into the forest. Neville still did not entirely know how much he trusted anyone here, but he knew he had little choice in the matter, really. He was past caring, and even if he were being lead to his death by these seemingly well-intentioned beings, it scarcely mattered anymore.

But there was no hidden snare waiting beyond the treeline. Instead, they were taken to a collection of buildings whose bower-like walls and intricately carved stonework melded so seamlessly with their surroundings that they appeared to have sprung naturally from the earth. Nature itself, however, was not nearly so natural.

Neville had already noted the disparity of the flowers in the field where they had first arrived, but even through his exhaustion and bemusement, he couldn't help but notice that it was even more pronounced among the trees. The air was warm and mild, but it was as though all the seasons were occurring at once. Intermingled freely and with no clear pattern, some trees stood in leaflessly skeletal dormancy, others in full, verdant leaf, while clouds of blossoms fought for extravagance with the fiery golds and scarlets of autumn.

A small herd of deer startled away from their approach, and he felt a distant ache as he caught a glimpse of the proud, branching antlers of a young stag. The twinge, however, was soon supplanted by a return of the numb, detached pragmatism. Better, honestly, that Harry had never made it to the ground. He'd been spared seeing the worst of it.

His dark musings were cut gratefully short as they arrived at their destination, the first and largest of the beautiful structures. Inside, they were taken to a cozy room where the at first mossy-looking floor proved carved of deep green marble, and the long, white fingers of the Sidhe stripped away their tattered and filthy uniforms with unhurried efficiency, carrying them off to what he could only hope was somewhere they would be disposed of, if not burned. He didn't want them back, mended and washed or not.

Neville thought his injuries had already been fully healed when Seamus had laid hands on him earlier, but either the passage through the Cauldron had undone some of the magic, or the Diabhal Dubh's own triumph over his friend's growing powers had undermined their strength. The wounds did not gape open again, but every one of them had scarred as if time alone had knit them, and he was shocked to finally realize the true extent of the injuries he had sustained.

From the tips of his fingers to the elbows on both sides, his arms were thickly sleeved in the gnarled, roped distortion of violent burns, more of the same spattered over his chest and side like splashes of grisly paint. His ribs, his upper arms, and his legs were heavily networked in a lattice of slashes and tears, and it looked like something with a lot of very nasty teeth had sunk them deep into his calf, the marks crossing directly over his Achilles tendon and going a long way to explain why he had been so completely unable to rise to his feet again after he had gone down.

"There's a reason they passed ya by for dead." He looked up, and Seamus was gazing at him with a wry smile that suggested the expression of incredulity that must have been laid across his own face. "And ya can't even see the loveliest."

Neville looked again at the overwhelming number of scars and winced. "Oh?"

"Already carryin' one helluva knot there, ya were, but after they got ya 'cross the back o' the head again…well, Fearless Leader, darlin', let's just say I could  _see_ a good-sized crack in your skull through the mess they made o' things."

He reached up to the back of his head, not quite able to believe it, but sure enough, there was a heavy, raised mass quite easily palpable through the thick waves of hair. His eyes widened as his mouth opened in empty search of a reply, but there was no opportunity for the words to find him before one of the Sidhe was there, a large, silver jug of what looked like lightly steaming water in her hands.

She set it quietly at his feet, pulling out a large, soft cloth and wringing it lightly before she began to lave it over his skin. A soothing scent of lavender rose from the water, and he closed his eyes, wishing that the scars could be wiped away as easily as the crusted blood and streaks of ash, but then he opened them again abruptly as he heard Seamus gasp. "She meant it! Like ya were never touched, 'tis!"

Startled, he looked down at his arms, and sure enough, where the cloth had already passed, he was not only clean, but completely unmarred, and he turned, wide-eyed to the rose-vined creature. "How are you doing that? They were already healed once, and the scars came back!"

Her smile didn't cause even the tiniest creases at the corners of her mouth or eyes, but it was genuine nonetheless as she continued her ministrations across his chest and shoulders. "We've deeper magic here, purer and stronger, though not to be speakin' ill o' your friend."

"But he –" Neville stopped, blinking in shock as he realized that he had understood every word. "You speak English!"

"Not's such," she made a soft, sighing sound like the wind in the hills, inhuman and eerie, yet unmistakably a laugh. "I speak's ever I have, but all ya needed afore was t'know we meant ya no harm, and now that there's need be graspin' the words themselves, ya can well enough."

"Then…" he said slowly, "…it's like the Room of Requirement here? I need to understand you, and I can? I wish the scars would go, and they just  _do?"_ A faint glow of excitement came at the edge of his voice, though he didn't quite allow himself to think of the real possibilities this new information suggested just yet. "Can I do  _anything_ here, just by wanting it?"

"'Tisn't what ya do or what ya want, lad," she corrected him calmly. "'Tis me magic here, not yours, you've not the knowledge o' it yet. But if's your wish, I can take the lot." The cloth dripped against his back now, and his breath caught as he realized what she was offering, but after a moment's pause, he shook his head.

"Leave those. And the ones on my face and palms. They're…different." He couldn't bring himself to explain further, but thankfully, that need to understand seemed to go both ways, and she only nodded, the slide of the cloth across his back stuttering lightly over the old scars as familiarly as ever.

She finished her task in silence, but he didn't mind. It felt good to be clean again, at least, and it made it easier to not wonder whether all of the blood that had dried burnt brown rather than inky black was his own, or if some belonged to…others.

Another of the Sidhe, this one some kind of ivy-spirit, entered as the first moved on to Seamus, though Neville hadn't been able to keep from noticing that the battle had left him by all appearances untouched. His uniform had been just as demolished, but not so much as a speck of blood had clung to him, and only the ornate lines and shades of the tattoos and his own scattered freckles marked his body.

This new arrival had brought clothing for them, and it was in a way both familiar and not. The fabric felt like the softest lambswool, and the garments were simple tunics of some kind. They had the loose sleeves and flowing lines of robes, but they slipped on over the head, the neckline low and square, the sleeves ending just above the elbow and the hem falling just above the knee. It didn't seem at all out of place that they reminded him strongly of attire he had seen in old medieval etchings, but it was wonderfully comfortable, and he accepted it gratefully.

Now clean and newly clothed, they were lead next to a dining hall with a long, low stone table that could have easily seated fifty, but where they were the only diners. Although the food they were offered was tasty and filling enough, Neville barely registered that he was eating at all, much less what it was or anything about it. He was moving, breathing, chewing and swallowing wholly automatically now, and all the magical creatures of the British Isles could have been in attendance without his notice.

It was only when they were taken to yet another room did anything matter at all, and that was with a low sigh of relief that was nearly a gasp of surrender. A bed, at last. Two of them, actually, lazily heaped with pillows and blankets, and murmured vague gratitude at their escorts before they were finally left alone with a needless admonition to rest.

Feeling like he was already half-sleepwalking. Neville crossed the stone floor, lifting heavy eyes to smile slightly at Seamus, who was already climbing into his own bed. "See you in the…uh, morning, I guess."

"Aye, so w'shall." There was something odd there, but he wrote it off to shared exhaustion with a slight shake of his head, then pulled back the top layer of blankets to climb beneath. Celestial Room of Requirement or not, the bed was perfect, and he had to marvel at the exactitude of it as he ran his hand across the sheets. They knew he needed something familiar, something comforting now, and they were precisely the same pale blue, the same texture as those of his own bed at home, the pillows exactly as soft, and he suspected that were he to reach across and press into the ones on the other side, they'd be firmer, just the way Hannah –

It hit him as though the cool, pristine cloth was a blast of ice-chill water, and all the easy drowsiness shattered away in a tight cry that staggered him back, half-tumbling out of the bed as if he had found a poisonous serpent beneath the sheets.

_Hannah._

His knees melted beneath him, collapsing him drunkenly down to the floor, but he made no move to rise or even right himself, struck down as completely as any blade or claw had ever managed. Again his head reeled, pounded, again his chest ached, his stomach clenched, the world spun dizzily around him and his vision blurred, but this time it was tears that clouded his vision, and the blood that choked the air from his lungs was not his own, but what he'd seen taken.

Taken. Gone. All of them. Every one of his friends, his comrades, their precious band of  _survivors_  all struck down while he couldn't do anything, not even for Zach with his growing little family, not even for brave, quiet Tony, for Ginny, who'd helped him form the DA in the first place but had been wiped out along with  _all_ of her remaining siblings. Not even his own wife.

Elegant fingers caressing her cheeks. Thick, hairy gray arms pinning her in place. The kiss of a Dementor's mistress, maggots dripping like spittle down to writhe in the dip of her collarbone. Skin twisting, sagging, rotting, tightening again. A burst of dust that vanished into an uncaring night like the puff of spores from a crushed mushroom.

 _Hannah_.

His fingers clenched in the sheets, wanting to tear them away, destroy them, but the urge was too futile to even express, no matter how foolishly. It would still be an empty bed, a cold bed, and how had he slept so blithely alone for twenty years of his life? How had he only missed her with a vague wistfulness or carnal longing when he had to travel away from her? Now that he would never have it again, how could he  _exist_  without the touch of her hand, the gilt of her hair in candlelight, the way she nuzzled against him and murmured softly if he awoke in the night, settling the nightmares with her mere presence and making it all right again just by  _being_ there….

Never again. She was gone, murdered, and he'd worse than done nothing. He was the reason she'd been there in the first place, she'd come for him, and he'd thrown her to a darkness he didn't even know, and that foreign hellmouth had consumed and swallowed her without hesitation or pity.

There were sounds being made somewhere very far away, and it sounded as though the poor soul uttering them must be in terrible pain indeed. He knew it couldn't be him, because he knew the sounds of his own grief after the Battle of Hogwarts, and this wasn't the same at all. These weren't very loud, not even sobs; they were halting, gulping cracks of air, broken in and out again over the edge of a sound that couldn't form properly, neither moan nor cry but something deeper than either.

His cheeks were wet. His stomach hurt. His arms hurt. His fingers hurt. The bed was shaking. That wretched, damned soul was still suffocating on his agony somewhere, but all he could do was stand back in his mind's eye and see that empty bed; the faces of the woman and the corpse slowly trading places….

Her eyes stared at him in accusation from across the gap of too-brief memory. Beautiful eyes, not sunken empty sockets. Beautiful jade with dashes of gold and turquoise in just the right light, deep pine green edging the iris, such gentle, kind eyes that could flash so much fire. Staring unflinching into his. Her hand on his cheek. Smile on her lips.  _Of course I'll fight with you, Neville._

"Well, wouldn't ya know…wonders never cease." The icy, almost triumphant air to Seamus' voice slashed through the grief, startling his head up from the edge of the bed, though he still couldn't make anything seem to work, push any thought past the droning scream of  _loss_ as he took in the other man's dark smile and folded arms without really seeing or understanding any of it.

He shook his head, and was that  _no I don't understand_ or  _no, this isn't real_  or  _no, make it not real,_ or even just  _please help me_ …? It didn't matter, because no help was offered, whether or not any real help could be.

The smile just tilted up at one corner of Seamus' mouth, and he tossed the long, loose hair back over one shoulder with a casual flick of his head at he stared down at the wreck of his friend and spoke in what sounded almost like satisfaction. "Fearless Leader's finally learnin' what it means to really lose someone."

Now his head did raise from the bed, and he turned only enough to look directly at the other man in blank disbelief, certain that he must have misunderstood somehow. There was no way Seamus could be that callous, that  _cruel_ at a time like this. "What do you –?"

"Hannah, ain't it?" Seamus tilted his head curiously, his voice casually conversational. "Come o'er ya right sudden, and I'm guessin' if there's one to prompt ya get all weepy for a bed, it'd be your wife. That, and I don't reckon thee's another could true matter 'nuff to get proper tears from that icy, stiff-upper-lip Brit heart o' yours."

The insult lilted smoothly off his tongue as though it were no more an epithet than his usual nickname, and Neville stared at him blankly, trying to comprehend the implications of what Seamus was saying. To suggest that he felt pain only for Hannah, even if her death was by far the worst of it…. "You think I don't care about the others?!"

"Dry-eyed enough the last time around, ya were."

"I had things I had to do!" He didn't mean to sound so defensive, knew the accusation was beyond ridiculous, but it was the very absurdity of it that kept his temper from swelling above the grief and shock as he got shakily to his feet "I didn't have the  _luxury—"_

"To love them, aye, I know," Seamus retorted.

"—To just sit down and come apart!" Now the anger was beginning to press forward, and he gestured hotly, counting off the obligations of that shattered stone and blood-stained morning. "There were families, survivors, wounded , missing, the DC kids to sort out, what to do with the bodies, kids who were orphans or whose families couldn't – but then again, I guess you wouldn't know how I felt after the fact, would you?" The bitterness of his own voice caught him distantly by surprise, but he was too outraged now to hold back the grudge he hadn't even realized he'd been nursing all this time. "By the time I went looking for my  _friend,_ my  _Lieutenant_ again, you were passed out on Dean's bed, and then you just vanished on us!"

"Am I supposed to feel 'shamed?" Seamus chuckled sardonically, then his eyes hardened again, and he took a step forward, his arms unlacing to jab Neville in the chest. "Least I  _cared!_  'Tis just ya said – ya were the Great Fearless Leader, and all else be buggered."

"Commander or not, they were my  _friends!"_ He struck Seamus' hand away. _"_ I was the Best Man at Ernie's wedding, Parvati was the first girl I ever kissed, Colin was like a little brother to me! Don't you dare –"

"Oh, I'll dare, Auror! Ya never let no one close enough to your heart to go claimin' ya had clue first o' real loss afore tonight! So much ya cared, didja? Loved them 'nuff to go usin' their bodies and their memories for a bit o' fancy dress soon's it were convenient?"

The sensation of roiling, flooding indignation fell back abruptly, and he almost laughed in relief, certain now that at least he knew why his friend had turned so harshly on him. "Is that what this is about?" He spread his hands, grimacing in genuine regret. "I swear, Seamus, I never had any idea you and Dean were lovers. I never even guessed you were gay!"

"Feckin' well ain't, neither!" The sharp features twisted, and dark sarcasm seemed to drip from every syllable. "Or's Lavender completely skipped that steel-trap memory o' yours?"

The rejection of his attempt at a peaceful overture brought the anger back full-force, and his hands crossed over his own chest now as he glared evenly into the blue eyes, barely able to keep his voice from trembling in what he didn't want to sound like the weakness it wasn't as he met the accusation evenly. "I remember her well enough, but I also seem to remember a certain Paddy with his tongue ten feet down my throat and trying damned hard to go for a couple of other things while he was at it! Or is that up there with torturing your mother on Seamus Finnigan's High and Mighty List of Acceptable Ways to Grieve?"

For a moment, he thought he was about to be punched, then Seamus spun on his heel and stalked across the room, slamming both fists into the wall with an echoing crash. When he turned back, his face was flushed scarlet, his knuckles bloody and already swelling, but he didn't seem to even notice. "I thought I'd another chance, ya bastard! Ya had me thinkin' it weren't too late, I could finally –"

"Snog him like you always wanted to those long nights in Gryffindor Tower when Ron and Harry and I were in your way?"

"Like  _he'd_ wanted, not me!" The look on his face was terrible to see, a poisonous cocktail of agonized guilt and fury, although it seemed directed suddenly as much inward as towards Neville himself.

It didn't matter. His temper might not have been nearly as explosive nor as close to the surface, but once it had been brought to boil, he was no more capable of controlling it, and it was more than easy to ignore the almost-imperceptible voice in the back of his head pleading vainly for him to stop before he said something he would regret. "So I forced you, then? Funny, you seemed pretty adamant…or maybe it's that memory of mine again, or maybe I'm just having trouble seeing things from your completely mental point of view."

"He loved me for years, and I'd not a clue!" Whether meant to be a retort or confession, it was shouted with raw-throated force, but then Seamus turned away again, and he had taken barely a step before his knees seemed to give way as well, and he barely caught himself on the edge of his bed. He was braced half-upright now on stiff and trembling arms, his hair falling in fine blonde curtains to shield his face completely as he managed to continue in a thin, choked whisper that was so void of emotion that he could have been reciting the weather forecast.

"Not 'til we were all readyin' to fight, and curse me feckin' tongue, I called him a feckin' queer. Bleedin' fairy I didn't want no part o', and he could off'n die afore I'd call him friend again…and so's he did, didn't he? And leavin' me with naught to take it back 'til you had me thinkin' there he were and here I had a chance to do't over." He shifted his weight, still hunched over as if about to be sick, but one hand came up to push his hair back behind his ear, and his head turned, revealing a face that had dissolved into a mask of perfect hate. "But I didn't, did I? Just a fraud, it were, like everythin' else about ya!"

It was fair. Brutal but fair, and Neville took a deep breath, feeling his shoulders slump down from the tension he'd scarecely realized they were holding as he nodded in reluctant acceptance. "I was wrong." He took another breath, forcing himself to meet the gaze that detested him for the deception he'd known even then was so brutally unethical. "I've said it before, I don't know how many more times you want me to say it before you're willing to listen, but I will. That was a stupid thing to do…more than stupid, it was unfair, it was unacceptable, and I'm sorry."

"Not feckin' enough, Auror." Seamus had gathered himself now, and he sat up ramrod-straight, the icy rebuke slowly freezing the pain from his face until it was Neville that shivered. Even if it were more openly dangerous, he discovered he much preferred the outright anger to this half-smile mouth and those controlled, focused, completely mad eyes. "And if ever there were, wouldn't change the rest one bit. Because it ain't the first o' it."

"Because I managed to stay half sober, and somehow that means I didn't love them," Neville shot back.

"I call ya a fraud 'cause that's all ya've ever been," Seamus corrected him. "A pathetic fraud, lettin' everyone think your parents were dead, bein' all secretive about what happened at the Department o' Mysteries so we'd all think it'd been sommat grand, pretendin' ya knew anythin' about leadin' a bloody army into battle, joinin' up with the very same folk let us down so bad! If your father weren't a gibberin' half-wit –"

"Don't you bring my parents into this!" His temper had flared again, and this time he was the one who stalked across the room, stopping barely inches away from where Seamus was sitting to tower over him, hands fisted at his sides and throbbing with the urge to slam that smirk into a bloody ruin. "They gave everything for me! Your father couldn't even be chuffed to hang around when he found out your mother had lied to him!"

"She loved him!" Seamus sprang off the bed, and they were literally toe to toe now, close enough to see the vein pulsing beneath the knotwork at his temple.

"So it's lies that pass for love in your family? Should have known, I guess, selfish little coward like you!"

" _Selfish_ am I? When I've –"

" _Selfish_! And I said coward, too!" He felt no regret as he flung down the declaration, knowing it was an act of war, but knowing that it was only a formality against something that was already so far beyond out of control. "The hat made a mistake, you  _should_  have been Slytherin! You were an  _officer,_ but that didn't matter, did it? You were so up yourself and what  _you'd_ lost that you walked out on everyone and stayed in your little pity party, making your mother suffer for  _years_ and then bringing all  _this_ down on us with your desperate need to be the big hero!"

The litany didn't faze Seamus, and he never flinched, never backed down in the slightest. "I didn't care to be no hero, Auror! I just wanted to stop him afore he –"

"Bullshit!" Neville snapped scornfully. "If you'd really wanted him stopped, you'd have gone for help as soon as you realized you couldn't do it alone – and don't tell me it took two years for you to do the maths on his numbers vs. your little band of Merry Men! And if you didn't trust the Ministry, you could have gone to  _any_ of us, we'd have listened if you'd stayed half a friend, but you ran and  _hid_ like the coward you are, murdering and sneaking around and –"

"At least I had guts enough to admit I were doin' things the raw and ugly way! Ya put on those fancy robes, and suddenly your shite don't stink…." Seamus gave him a look as if he had stumbled across something disgusting smeared on the bottom of his shoe and shook his head, breaking the stalemate as he stepped back, but it was in no way a retreat. If anything, it had the air of taking the high ground, and he crossed his arms again, leaning back slightly to fix Neville with a condemning stare. "Hypocrite! I know what ya lot've done in the name o' justice! Malfoy  _walked!_ "

"It was the only way to find out –"

"I'd have found out for ya, o' sure's I would! But ah, that's the  _coward's_  way, ain't it? Doin' me own dirty work with the blood on me own hands rather than passin' it off to a bunch o' corrupt bureaucrats and callin' meself a man o' justice."

Neville refused to be baited, taking a slow, measured step back of his own as he folded his arms in deliberate mimicry, and though the words were resigned, the tone was anything but. "I call myself someone who's just done the best he can."

"Do ya need me to tell ya what your excuses are worth, Auror?"

"Fine, then!" He shook his head in disgust, turning his back on the other wizard as he returned to his bed. There were too many other emotions now for the light blue linen to be anything more than cloth at the moment, and maybe he should have been grateful for that, but he was far too angry to even think about the grief that had been his whole world so recently. "I didn't want to be here, I didn't intend to stay here, and the only, the  _only_ reason I'm staying the night is to find out if there's anything I can do to make that bastard pay for what he's done to the friends I actually  _do_  care about…"

Neville glanced back over his shoulder with a vitriolic twist of a smile. "But as for you, you can be grateful that there's one less person tying you back from being every bit the monster you're so eager to be."

"Then go!" Seamus held his ground, making no move either towards Neville or towards his own bed as he gestured fiercely at the door. "Tonight, tomorrow, do's ya please! Ya weren't no real friend o' mine from the moment ya turned trust on me in the face o' a man ten thousand times better than you'll ever be, queer or no, and I'll be glad enough see ya in hell!"

This time Neville did chuckle; and in the mirth was real enough in a way that was as dark and dry and cold as an empty well. "Well at least that you won't have to wait for, Finnigan. Thanks to you, I'm already there."

OOO

He had thought he was far too angry to fall asleep, that he would lie there staring at the woven-branch ceiling until long after dawn, but the exhaustion must have driven past emotion in the end, because there was a cool hand on his shoulder shaking him, and if he was struggling up now from beneath the darkness, he must have fallen asleep after all. Neville heard himself murmur inarticulately into the pillow, and he turned away from the hand, burrowing deeper beneath the warm, down-quilted coverlet. Now that he realized he had it, sleep was actually a very nice thing, and he didn't want to just let it go.

"Come now, lad, ya've slept long 'nuff." There was a kind amusement to the tone, but there was insistence as well, and he grunted irritably, pulling the covers up over his ear with one hand as he kept his eyes determinedly closed.

"The Morrigan're wantin' ya."

"M'guh?" Finally conceding that he wasn't about to be left alone, Neville rolled over with a deep sigh, opening his eyes just enough to see the same ivy-twined Sidhe from the night before leaning over the edge of the bed.

"Morrigan, aye." She drew back the blanket, and he he winced as the cool morning air rushed in to replace the cocooned warmth. "They've granted ya both audience. I 'spect it's to do with the Fomorians, but that's not me place. Mine's to ready ya."

Neville sat up, rubbing his eyes as he pushed his hair back and looked around the room again, remembering suddenly what had happened the night before. "What about Seamus? Where is he? I don't want –"

The Sidhe laughed as she motioned towards the door, and although he looked, Seamus wasn't there any more than he was in the other, empty bed. Instead, it was another cluster of the Sidhe that entered, each cradling small bundles in their arms. "There was the feelin' perhaps things had gone a bit sour between's the two o' ya last night, so we thought it best t'wake him first and have him gone afore we woke ya."

Neville' brow creased, uncertain how he felt about being separated like sniping children, but at the same time grateful that he didn't have to see his former friend's face today. Nor, if he could help it, he thought with a surge of unexpectedly fierce returning anger, ever again. The man had cost him everything, and he wasn't about to forget. Or forgive.

"D'ya care for some bread or a bit o' wine afore we start?" The question caught him off guard, and he shook his head quickly.

"Uh…no."  _Wine in the morning?_ But this was their world, not his, and he didn't intend to stay long enough to need to worry about it. He glanced down at himself, half-expecting to see that the scars had returned overnight, but the only marks on his arms were the old curls of the years-old scars and the slightly more recent tattoo on his right bicep.

It bore the letters D.A. linked into a single monogram, with 2-5-98 below. His heart caught as he glimpsed the simple black-ink markings, and he couldn't help staring as he felt the grief that had been so brutally interrupted the night before threatening again. They'd all gotten them on a late August night two years ago, when Jimmy, the youngest of the survivors, had finally come of age. Except Jimmy was gone now, along with the rest of them. In all the living world, less than a dozen still bore this mark. Could they really have once numbered almost eighty?

"Not the time for that, now," He glanced up, startled to think at first that the Sidhe had somehow read his mind, but she gestured lightly towards his face, and when he touched his cheek, he discovered that tears had fallen without his realization. Embarrassed but more than that not wanting to fall again into that pain, he took a deep breath, climbing out of the bed quickly.

The stone floor was warmer than he had expected beneath his feet, holding none of the familiar morning shock that he was accustomed to from school or home, but that was certainly not something to complain about. He reached both hands above his head, stretching until there was a satisfying  _pop_ from his shoulders, then shook himself, spreading his hands obediently to the Sidhe who had woken him. "All right. What do you want me to do?"

Her reply was no longer in English, but he found that she had been right. If he didn't need the words themselves, there was no cause for the language, and he still understood the message perfectly clearly. He wasn't to do anything, they would take care of it all. At first, it seemed a bit patronizing – he had been managing to dress himself for nearly twenty years, after all – but it quickly proved for the best.

These garments were far more complex than the tunic he still wore from the previous night. At first glance, they didn't seem so, but the leggings laced up the sides of his thighs in a pattern so intricate that their long fingers blurred to streaks of white as they all but tatted the leather thongs to achieve a fit so close that he rather wondered how they expected him to move. More lacings wrapped the loose kidskin boots that came halfway up his calves, and then there was another garment, this one of deep blue, that looked to be a length of unshaped cloth until their expert hands draped and folded, wrapped his waist in a wide leather belt, pinned two silver brooches at the shoulders that were crafted in more delicate detail than human fingers could ever achieve.

Silver cuffs at his wrists, a heavy sort of bracelet formed like a sea serpent clasped around his upper arm through the open sides of the sleeves, and a final silver band that was settled onto his head like a coronet of sorts. It was the perfect likeness of a twisted vine that rested just above his eyebrows and seemed to have been sculpted precisely for him to fit as tightly but painlessly as if it were tied from cloth, and they combed his hair from beneath it to fall loosely into his eyes again before stepping back with looks of approval.

None of it was uncomfortable, far from it, but as he looked at himself, it still felt wrong. This was the attire of some pre-medieval warrior, and he couldn't be more different, no matter how much raw brutality he had found himself capable of when caught in the raging nightmare of battle. He wasn't some mythic figure from an old manuscript illuminated against crumbling parchment and handled by scholars with cotton gloves, he'd been born in 1980, for goodness sakes, he was only twenty-two years old, he belonged to a world of rock music and modern conveniences, a gardener at heart and a government agent by necessity. Not this.

The Sidhe had finished with him, and he followed as they lead him from the room and the compound to begin making their way through the forest, but he found that he could no longer contain his growing discomfort and curiosity. "Why did you dress me like this? Is there going to be some kind of…of ritual, or something? Were my old things too far beyond repair?"

"They could have been mended," shrugged a tall male Sidhe whose head was crowned in a twining plait of heather. "But ya didn't want them any more. Your blood, the blood o' your friends…these things were best put to rest. And one does not stand before the Morrigan in night clothes."

"Who is this Morrigan, anyway?" he pressed. "Is he your leader?"

"They are in a way," the heather-Sidhe nodded. "But she is curious about ya. She wants to see the boys who stood against the Diabhal Dubh and had force o' will and strength o' heart 'nuff to pass into the Oweynagat. It has been more than a thousand years since one o' your kind has managed this."

"Wait – you said  _they_ , but then you said  _she –"_

"Ya will see," he chuckled. "Cliodna warned us that ya want answers to everythin'."

"I certainly do," Neville agreed. "Like the other one – the ivy one – she said something about the Fomorians. Are they attacking you too? Are Seamus and I supposed to fight them?" His tone darkened, and he met the creature's dark, pupilless eyes defiantly. "Because I'm not going to have anything more to do with that son of a hag, I swear."

"Hold your oaths, child," He whirled, and he saw that Cliodna herself had appeared among their little band. She was clad in robes much like the previous day, but they were now the deep blue-grey of a stormtossed ocean, and three small birds settled on her shoulders and lightly upheld fingers as tame as kittens. They were unlike any birds he had ever seen before, their eyes gleaming like rubies; and she stroked one feathered head with the back of her fingers as she smiled at him. "And the Fomorians are gone from the Oweynagat. 'Tis the heart o' the problem, that."

"I don't understand," Neville protested. "I've met them. They're not exactly the sort of blokes that improve a neighborhood. I'd think you'd be thrilled if they were gone."

"There's meant to be a balance," Cliodna shook her head. "The light and the dark, all the creatures o' the Otherworld are meant to remain here, but the Diabhal Dubh hasn't just opened the gate between our worlds, he's summoned forth only the beings o' darkness, and the Fomorians have been hungry to take their place with your like since they were first banished and the worlds divided at the dawn o' the age o' men."

"Then, this isn't usually some kind of heaven," he said slowly, "it's just…another place. Like how the magical and the Muggle worlds exist alongside, but more strongly divided."

"Now we're seein' some truth," Cliodna smiled. "And the Morrigan is thinkin', as am I, that the two o' ya might be the best hope o' rightin' that."

"You mean…getting the Fomorians and the other dark creatures back on this side?" he frowned.

"Leadin' forth the Faye."

Neville paused, wondering if he had somehow misheard. "I thought you were called the Sidhe?"

"The Sidhe are nature spirits, the embodiment o' the trees and the plants, rocks and animals. The Faye's what you'd be namin' all the creatures o' light as one: Sidhe, Leprechaun, Selkie, Far Darrig, Dobhar-Chu, Fir Bolog…the lot."

"And Seamus and I, where do we fit into that?"

"As I said, child," she placed on hand on his arm, and he barely kept himself from wincing, certain suddenly that whatever she wanted to steady him for could not be good news, "The Fomorians were summoned through by the Diabhal Dubh. Our words are held separate by magic too powerful for all but Danu herself. Your world is no match for the Fomorians any more, not with so much forgotten, and the Faye cannot follow after unless they too are summoned…or lead."

"Then…" They had come to the side of a hill now, and there was a large, square entrance carved from the snowy white limestone, flickering torches set just within casting a living light into a deep, endless tunnel. The Sidhe entered calmly, but he remained outside with Cliodna, knowing without needing to be told that this was where the Morrigan was waiting for him, quite certain he would have to face Seamus again as well, but also increasingly sure that he would be likewise facing a choice that he didn't think he wanted to deal with.

He took a deep breath, his eyes not on the beautiful Goddess at his side, but the ominous depths ahead. "Then we're supposed to lead the Faye across into our world and stop him from going any further with this madness."

Her smile was answer enough, and he closed his eyes, rubbing at the circlet that suddenly seemed a lot tighter, though he knew it was actually not at all the source of his abrupt headache. "Oh, sweet Merlin."

"Now there, child," he could hear her smile as she gave him a little push against the small of his back, her feathered companions fluttering on ahead in a twittering swirl of jewel-bright wings. "Merlin had his own troubles."


	18. Son of Pretani

The tunnel did not dip into the earth as he had expected. Rather, the long, smoothly hewn walls tilted upwards, gently at first, then rising more and more steeply until he was struggling to keep his footing on the heavy slant that gave no steps cut into the dirt floor to offer a better grip. Beside him, Cliodna showed no such difficulty, gliding along as though the ground remained perfectly even, but it was not the Goddess's unnatural ease that bothered him.

By his calculations, crude though they were, they should have long ago come out onto the top of the little hill, and he began to wonder if the strange magic of the Oweynagat made space as fluid as time seemed to be. He supposed it was just another thing to add to the growing list of questions for the Morrigan…whatever it or they or she was.

Abruptly, the tunnel leveled out, and as they turned the first corner they had encountered in the entire length – it must have been nearly half a mile by now – he found himself facing a heavy wooden door that blocked the passage, the thick handles wrought from bronze into the open-jawed heads of wolves. These viciously stylized guardians brought to mind another wolf's head, all-too-similarly carved of ivory, and he shivered as he hesitated, unsure whether he was meant to open it himself or to wait for his guide to do so.

Again, it seemed as though Cliodna could read his mind, and he felt the soft press of her hand against his back. "Go on, child. The Morrigan called ya alone."

He turned quickly, surprised to find how much it worried him that the only being he had come to know at all on this side had implied she was going to leave him. "Aren't you—"

She shook her head, and he suddenly saw that she had begun to fade, her pale skin showing the flicker of the torchlight beyond, and he reached out, uncaring whether it was appropriate to grab a Goddess as he clutched at the smooth folds of her robes. " _Please…_ I have no idea what's going on here, can't you just come with me for a minute or two?"

The flimsy feel of the cloth under his fingers did not solidify, but nor did she continue to fade away. "Your friend will be there as well, but otherwise, no, the Hall of the Morrigan is not mine to enter when they wish a private audience."

"He's not my friend." Neville hadn't meant it to sound so petulant, but he didn't care. It was bad enough that the other man had gotten him into this situation, and it was only insult to injury that he had the distinct feeling that Seamus wouldn't be nearly so unmoored by whatever waited on the other side of the bronze-banded door.

"I know what passed between ya," she acknowledged. "Deep ya wounded one another, and words can pass cold and hard as swords, 'tis true, but what went afore bonds ya deeper still."

"It's not his words," Neville protested bitterly. "It's what he  _did_. I know he says stupid stuff sometimes – I could forgive that. But I can't forgive him for all those lives…." He swallowed hard, refusing to let his voice catch or tremble. "They were my friends, ma'am, my soldiers…my  _wife."_

"True and hard, that," she reached up, stroking his cheek, and the passage of her fingers was nothing more than the caress of a breeze. "But ya forgave Dumbledore's blind hubris for twice that o' your dearest, and for twenty times that overall, and he ya never called more than teacher."

He blinked, as shocked by what she had implied as that she knew the name, but before he could ask anything further, she had gone, vanishing into thin air with a whisper of wind that simply dispelled her translucent figure like smoke into the flickering dimness. For a long moment, he simply stared at the emptiness where she had been standing, then he took a deep breath, turning back to grip the carved jaws in both hands.

It had been his assumption without even realizing it that he would emerge onto the brow of the hill, leading into some forest glade or circle of mysterious stones, but as the doors came easily open, he found himself frozen in place as he stared in bemused awe at the magnificent impossibility before him.

Only once had he seen anything like it, when curiosity had drawn him to the towering edifice of Canterbury Cathedral in Hannah's native Kent. The ceiling soared easily eighty feet above his head, supported by beams that looked no thicker than matchsticks from this distance, but which he knew must be whole tree trunks. The walls were hung along their entire length with tapestries more richly detailed than he had ever seen, depicting scenes of vast armies locked in fiercely ancient combat, and although the hall stretched ahead of him for a hundred feet, the floor was a single, seamless block of marble as smooth as glass.

Five hundred men could have dined there easily if tables had been laid, but there was only one piece of furniture at the far end of the hall; a throne whose tall stone back was carved in the uplifted wings of a huge black raven. It should have looked tiny, lost in the vastness of the space, but the entire room was merely the elaborate setting of a ring for the jewel of the throne and the woman waiting for him there.

A second door opened, then closed, but even though he knew who had entered, he could not take his eyes off the woman – the Morrigan, she had to be. She was tall, probably at least as tall as Neville himself, if not taller, and she wore a brief, sleeveless crimson tunic that left her long legs almost entirely bare. Bronze armor wrapped her shins and torso, sculpted so well as to appear a second, shining skin, and a bronze helmet likewise shaped into raven's wings crowned a long mane of hair more brilliantly and truly red than any of the Weasley siblings had ever boasted.

She was beautiful, every bit as much as Cliodna, but it was a cold beauty, her features so strong as to border on masculine, and she radiated such raw  _power_  that Neville felt the overwhelming instinct to fall to his knees, but as he moved to lower himself, he discovered that he already had. His head bowed, and he could hear his heart beating in his ears with an inexplicable thrill that was unlike anything he had ever felt before, the raw  _presence_ seeming to push his own small power into such heightened life that he could feel it tingling and pulsing against his flesh.

" _Bandia."_ The word should have echoed cavernously, but it sounded as if Seamus had spoken it in the cozy confines of a small sitting room, and as the woman spoke, her own reply was just as intimate.

"Seamus o' Ulster. Neville o' York. Come closer now. We would see ya." The urge that had brought him to his knees faded abruptly, and he stood, able now to hold his head high and even meet her eyes as he started forward, deliberately ignoring the footfalls he could hear keeping pace with his own.

She stood to greet them, but as her long limbs unfolded from the chair, they unbraided from themselves, the folds of her tunic spreading, her hair fluttering wide in a wind that never stirred the tapestries, but what was happening was more than any strange zephyr. Like a fan of petals unfurling from a single bud, three women stepped forward from the throne where one had rested.

The central figure was still the woman he had first seen, but  _purified_  was the only word he could find for her appearance now, even though there had been nothing impure or marred to begin with. Her tunic was the pure red of new-spilled blood, and her hair was no longer copper, but matched it precisely, her eyes inky black and serenely regal. Once he looked, he could see that the other two women were her match in face and form, but they couldn't be more different.

Dark gray robes, ethereal and gauzy, shrouded the one on her right, her hair half-shielding her face in long, ropy black strands. Her skin was waxen pale, her eyes sightless white, but as she turned them towards him, her fingers beckoning him on, he felt as though she could not only see him, but  _into_ him,  _through_ him, leaving him naked before that empty gaze.

The third had hair of pure sunlit gold, a wild cascade of corkscrew curls that spilled nearly to her waist. Her clothing was more like Neville's own, clearly a man's attire, and a warrior's at that, but it was tattered and slashed in a dozen places, spattered in blood and dirt, and the sword that hung at her waist bore a broken blade. Her clear blue eyes gleamed with an eager hunger, but there was something wild and unpredictable about her look, and she seemed just as likely to throw herself forward and shower him with kisses or to plunge the remains of her sword into his chest without a moment's warning.

He had come within perhaps ten feet of the base of the throne before he stopped, kneeling once more. The Sidhe had been right, she was a they and at least that much made sense, if nothing else. He had heard of the concept of a triune Goddess before, though he had never expected to encounter one quite so closely, and the casual theory in no way prepared one for actually seeing such a thing in person. Neville had no idea what to say, but it was the one in the gray who spoke, stepping away from the others to circle first him, then the companion he could barely see out of the corner of his eye.

Her voice did echo, so much so that it turned onto itself like the thrum of rain on a windowpane, but the words were still clear.

" _Take fate in hand the hilt and blade_

_Road unplanned in choices made_

_Ruby gleam and ivory cold_

_Nothin' seems as once foretold_

_The maiden burns the forest stands_

_The table turns from parted lands."_

He had never actually heard the prophecy that had shaped his fate as a child, but a bone-deep chill seized him at the lilting chant, and he knew that this wasn't just a fortune-teller's theatrics. It didn't all make sense, but he recognized the meaning of enough of it to understand that the blind eyes were every bit as penetrating as they felt, and as he turned to follow her cool procession, his look finally caught with Seamus'.

Even through everything else, he was still seized with a sharp flare of anger at the sight of the unapologetic set of his mouth, the challenge in his eyes. His attire was precisely identical to Neville's own, but he couldn't help the childish resentment that Seamus didn't look awkward in it at all. If anything, it suited him better than a shirt and tie ever had, his long hair and azure tattoos completing the image of the Celtic warrior-hero with effortless poise

Seamus' mouth flickered so briefly that it could have been an imagined expression, but he knew the smirk was real enough, even though he could offer no reply as the Goddess continued again.

" _No will apart may span the gate_

_What force of heart directs this fate?"_

Neville didn't understand the question, but when he opened his mouth, what emerged was nothing like what he had meant to say, and he heard his own voice confess things that he'd never even properly allowed himself to know before. "It's fear. Fear brought me to you. I've lived my whole life by that. I've been afraid of what I might not be, of what I am, of letting my parents down, my Gran, my friends, people I don't even know.

"I've done things that everyone says were brave, but it was only because I was too afraid of what might happen if I didn't at least try, and I've let other people use me and even used myself because of that. I've only ever done one thing that wasn't from fear, and that was fall in love, and even then I tried to push it away at first because I was scared of what might happen."

At last he stopped, but even though the admission had ended of its own accord, he was struck speechless. It was true, truer than he had ever wanted to face, but before he could wrap his mind around what he had just unwittingly revealed, the triumphant look on Seamus' face gave way to shock as he too began to speak, the panic in his eyes showing that it was equally unwilling.

"'Tis hate for me. Hate and anger. 'Tweren't so bad when I were young, but still there it were; hated me Da for leavin' me, all the folk what made it so I were scared each time I left me Mam for school that she'd be shot down in the street while I were gone. Hated Riddle and his lot for bringin' war where things were 'sposed be better than that, and damn near everyone in the whole wizardin' world when I knew it were to a bunch o' kids to make it right and to die for their cowardice.

"Then it were over, and everyone were sayin' we'd won, but I hated every bastard who could just go on when I were too angry and bleedin' inside to breathe without screamin', and they just wanted to pin me a medal and shake me hand and leave me to choke on it. Hate near killed me, then it brought me back when I had somewhere to put it 'gain, and now it's killed most everyone I ever cared for, and in all the fire o' it 'afore, 'tis not a candle to what I have now, but nowhere for't go, so I reckon this time it'll take me 'tlast."

Silence fell thickly over the hall in the wake of this second confession, but the red-haired woman at the center simply nodded, resuming her seat on the throne as she cupped her chin in her hand to regard the two shocked young men kneeling before her. Then she nodded in satisfaction and beckoned them to their feet.

"Ya know yourselves, then, Seamus o' Ulster and Neville o' York, whether or not ya have spoken the words before, even to your own hearts. That is strength. Do not be ashamed of what ya have said, either. Your hate is the shadow cast by the brilliant light o' the love o' which ya are also capable, Son o' Ulster, and to act despite your fears is the essence o' bravery, Son o' York. Ya have earned the right to stand here, and to have your questions answered, for Badb has spoken well, and ya carry the potential to be what we have long sought in knowledge that this day would come."

Neville hesitated before he was willing to attempt to speak again, but to his relief, what he said was exactly what he had intended, no more. "What's that?"

They spoke as one in reply. "Heroes."

There was a pause, then Seamus let out a dark chuckle. "Oh, I'm sure the Auror'd be happy 'nuff helpin' ya there. An Order o' Merlin, First Class, he has, and received by the bleedin' Queen o' England herself –"

"She received Harry and the Minister too, Finnigan!" Neville knew faintly that it was probably wrong to allow himself to be baited in the presence of the Morrigan, but he couldn't help it. "She  _asked_ me to bring my surviving officers, but I guess that just wound up buried under the empty bottles with all the other letters you ignored."

Seamus' eyes flared with anger, but it twisted into a sardonic smirk as he turned to the Morrigan with a low bow. "Accordin' to the Auror, see, I weren't supposed to grieve me friends, and then I tried to do sommat for a  _real_ threat –"

"You became a murderer and a vigilante and lead us into a slaughter for your own vendetta!"

"Ya were the one had the idea bringin' them in to start with!"

"You never –"

"Silence!" The sword of the golden-haired aspect slashed through the air between them, and he felt himself driven back a step as if invisible hands had shoved hard against his chest. The blade was no longer broken, but whole and gleaming, and her eyes were sparks of disdainful fury as she glanced from one to the other, the tendons of her hands standing out in starkly taut lines where she gripped the thick hilt, poised and ready for either man. "Fools, both o' ya. Once he had the Cauldron, no force o' mortal man could stop him. Only the girl has even slowed his rise, and your little accusations o' petty blame are less than nothin'!"

"Then if no mortal can stop him, why don't ya do somethin'?" Seamus' audacity was appalling, but he showed no trace of fear as he stepped in close to the Goddess, jabbing a hand towards her in frank accusation. "Ya seem as much against him as anyone, and I thought ya were deities! Aren't ya supposed to be all-powerful?"

Her face flushed, and she spun, the sword coming up in a gleaming stroke that should have cleaved the other wizard neatly in two, but the red-haired aspect stood, and the whirl of the blow became a vanishing swirl into nothingness as she was taken back into the whole. Black eyes were now deep indigo, the red waves curled more tightly, but there was no other sign that the other had ever been, and she addressed Seamus with perfect, authoritative calm. "There are limits to the power even o' our kind."

The close call had startled him enough that he was silent a moment, his head bowed, but then the freckled face lifted again, the defiance forced again past the brief flicker of self-preservation. "Couldn't ya have at least turned the battle to us…that were Nemain, weren't it?"

"I am," she agreed, "and if there'd been the lot o' ya smilin' so sweet to me as I know you're capable, I may've considered it. I'm as fair to flattery as any maid…but the most o' ya didn't believe."

Now it was Neville who couldn't keep from interrupting, confused and feeling more than a bit betrayed at the thought that victory could have been as simple as some great game of celestial mother-may-I. "You just said he couldn't be beaten…?"

"And ya'd still've lost, but maybe it'd not've been such a massacre, or your deaths more glorious…or maybe nothin' at all." She shrugged as if it were irrelevant, sitting down again, but the one Seamus had called Nemain parted off again as she did so, remaining standing, sword again harmless and broken at her belt.

"I don't choose upon right or wrong so simply. I've me whims, and while a warrior may sway them for a moment, you're damned if ya think there's any predictin' or controllin' what I do in the end." She tossed her head, and her smile was bizarrely sweet, the seductive grin of a beautiful young girl, but with a look in her eyes that said the promised kiss would poison.

Neville shivered, taking a step back as he looked towards the woman on the throne, and he didn't care about the edge of pleading that had come into his tone. "I don't understand  _any_ of this! What  _are_ you…Morrigans, Nemain? Are you really Goddesses?"

"That we are." She gave him a look of such understanding that he felt instantly as though his questions had been already answered, though she still continued. "Ya have power in yourselves alone to cast a little fox or a young bulldog that is the pure manifestation o' your magic and your belief. How infinitely more and just the same the united belief o' the uncountable many for the long millennia? I  _am_  the Morrigan, leadership and sovereignty, my sisters Badb and Nemain  _are_ the forces o' prophecy and death, o' the havoc o' the battlefield. We hold the power o' the many just as the ocean holds the power o' so many drops o' rain, but the beliefs that form us also bind. We hold no sway o'er other Gods formed from alien beliefs, nor if there are those who stand above us all, but here in our own realm, ya may hold us infinite."

"Then…" he paused, struggling to understand, "this is all just an illusion, something not really corporeal… _like_  a Patronus?"

She beckoned him forward, and he moved despite his trepidation, his body responding not against but beyond his will as he watched himself kneel again, saw his hand reach out until she took it in her own. The contact made him gasp aloud, and he did not know if the sensation was searing agony or orgasmic pleasure or utter numbness. It ran through his whole body from the point where her skin – that did not feel like skin, in fact, but like something he could only describe as solid  _wind_  – touched his. Somehow, he knew that she wasn't really touching him at all, she was touching his magic as truly and directly as if she had plunged her fingers into his veins to touch his blood, and her own was so much greater that his both melted and flared like a candle thrown into a bonfire.

A cold sweat had broken out across his brow, his mouth was dry, his head spinning, and it seemed as if her words came  _within_ him, as clear as any thought or instinct, and he didn't even know if he could hear her with his ears as well. "How much illusion is the unseen barrier o' your Shield Charm? 'Tis nothin' ya can hold in your hand, mere force o' magic, true?"

He couldn't speak, but the feel of the familiar charm passed through his fingertips as if he still had his wand, and he knew that he had answered her there, and that the words formed even in his mind were unneeded.  _I don't know if it's_ real,  _but it stops things._

She let go of his hand, and he wanted to cry out from the  _loss_ of it, but before he could make a fool of himself, the tearing separation passed, and he rubbed at a hand that only tingled vaguely, staring at her in awe as she tilted her head, acting as though nothing more than a simple hand-clasp had occurred. "Real as a stone wall for that? Stone which may be breached by fire hot enough or a blow hard enough?"

"Uh…" he shook his head harshly, forcing himself to focus. "I mean, yes."

"Thus real are we. And in the end, what does it matter to the man whose sword breaks against wall or charm?"

"That makes sense enough," he allowed, then looked again at his hand, still bemused that it showed no visible sign of her touch. "But the things we fought last night, those didn't  _feel_ like you do. Those things were horrible, but…they bled. I could  _hurt_  them, kill them even. Or was that because I believed they were just monsters?"

"A wise question, Son o' York." The Morrigan paused a moment, as if in consideration. "No, your belief nor any other man's is nothin' to that. The Fomorians, the dark number, the Faye, they are all mere and mortal creatures. Magical, sure enough, but no more than ya yourselves or the unicorns, centaurs, and like with which you're more familiar. They eat and sleep, breed and die, but they were cast into our world thousands o' years ago, and there they have been bound until now. 'Twas the great Lugh who set that, and so few were the ways to break it that still none can simply pass."

"We passed, though," Seamus protested, "and I don't see's the Auror believin' shite. And I'll be true, I believed that there were old power, fair enough I'd seen and done around the edges o' it meself, but I didn't believe that ya existed until I stood 'afore Cliodna."

"There are some places and objects where a man may pass alive into the Oweynagat, but only if it is not his intent to do so and only if there is a need and a reason for him to do so, and such need and reason there is here," the Morrigan answered.

Nemain fingered the hilt of her sword, and there was something at once wistful and anticipatory about her voice. "All that can now stop the Diabhal Dubh is forces equal to his own, and that shall require the Faye and a second great Magh Tuiredh."

"And the only way for that," Neville said slowly, "is for a human to either lead you out or summon you through, and since he's not likely to let that happen from his side and we did wind up passing whatever kind of magical judgment kept us from just burning to death, you think it should be us."

"It  _could_  be," the Morrigan amended. "But only if you're willin' to become heroes, for no mere man is worthy to call upon the Fae."

"I've risked me neck and feckin' near given up me soul!" Seamus said bitterly. "Auror's been called a hero in enough places to choke a giant! Can I care t'ask what's missin' from our CVs?"

The Morrigan gave him a look so coldly rebuking that Neville was amazed that he barely flinched beneath it. "A hero by the terms as matter now is not a name cast lightly upon any brave youth, or yes, ya both could ready lay by that claim. A hero is one who has completed a Quest, taken the Three Wounds, proven himself a master o' the warrior's arts."

The silence after this stretched nearly a full minute, then Neville took a deep breath, pulling his shoulders back as he raised his head to meet the Morrigan's eyes evenly. "All right, then, if that's what I have to do to stop the Diabhal Dubh for good, just give me my quest and I'll go right now."

"It would serve little use, Son o' York." The Morrigan said patiently. "In your own heart, ya know you're not ready for such combat as ya would face. A sword is a foreign tool in your hands, ya know near nothin' o' the creatures ya would call foe, ya rely too strongly on magic that cannot serve ya in this." She nodded towards her silent, gray-clad sister-aspect. "Badb will look to your heart, and you'll be sent to learn from one who has already become a hero for ten years, and then your Quest, and perhaps ya will emerge ready to do what ya wish."

Neville's mouth dropped open, but it was Seamus' brash outburst that put words to his disbelief. "Ten years! No feckin' way!"

"Are ya so afraid that the strength o' youth would be long gone at only thirty-three, Son of Ulster?" Nemain sneered. "That ya would totter to battle leanin' upon a cane and boastin' a long white beard?"

"No, but  _ten years!"_ Seamus shook his head incredulously. "It'll be too late then…the Diabhal Dubh –"

"Time means nothin' here, and our time is not the time of the other realm." The Morrigan regarded the young Irishman as if his protests were the antics of a particularly precocious toddler, but beneath the patience, her tone was absolute. "Whether it is ten years or ya were to return tomorrow, it does not matter to what will come to pass there. Ya must learn, ya must prove willin' to truly devote yourselves to this. It is not a matter for argument. Either ya choose to take this path or ya pass back to where ya came."

"You mean…" Neville hesitated, licking his still-dry lips. "Into the fire?"

"'Twas your last act, your last choice." She waved her hand, and a panel of the tapestries lining the walls dissolved into an arch identical to the one Cliodna had conjured when they first arrived, the same leaping flames filling the entrance so intensely that he had to raise one hand to shield his face from the powerful waves of heat emanating from it like the open mouth of a blast furnace.

It wasn't really a choice. True, there was a part of him that was darkly tempted by the idea of just ending it all and leaving Seamus solely responsible for the disaster he had brought them into, but if there was really a possibility, any chance at all of stopping the Diabhal Dubh…. He turned away from the fiery gate, nodding towards the three Goddesses firmly. "I'll stay. Even if time wasn't different here, if you really think I could do something about that monster, I'm yours."

"Well chosen, Son o' York." The doorway vanished, the air cooling with unnatural immediacy, and the Morrigan motioned graciously towards Seamus. "Son o' --?"

"I won't be spendin' ten years with  _him_ ," he jerked his head distastefully at Neville. "But if ya think I'm backin' away from the fight now, you're mad."

"Your quarrel with him will be o' little consequence." Nemain said dismissively. "Ya will be taken away from all distractions, shall see no man or woman except your teacher, and that will be your only concern until ya are ready to begin the Quest."

Seamus looked back towards the doors where they had entered, and Neville found his own eyes following, like the other man half-expecting to see their mysterious instructors waiting there. But the doors remained nothing but doors, and they were still alone in the hall with the three Morrigan.

Nemain's amused giggle at their reaction brought his attention back to the Goddesses, and she wagged her finger at them chidingly. "Ah, but we must choose…."

She had disappeared so thoroughly into the shadows beside the throne that he had almost forgotten she was there, but Badb stepped forward again, and again he felt the same sensation of the milky eyes penetrating into his heart. Remembering what had happened last time, he pressed his lips together tightly, aware that it was probably futile, but willing himself desperately not to burst out with another disturbingly profound confession. But there was no such urge as she circled them, her hands weaving an elegant, almost dancelike pattern through the air above their heads.

" _Fields shall grow beneath his hand_

_These powers flow from verdant land_

_Unblazoned shield unguided blade_

_No master kneels the renegade"_

He could tell easily enough what was meant to apply to himself and what was meant for Seamus, but the Morrigan seemed to have drawn far deeper meaning from it, and she mulled over the other woman's words for several seconds before she stood. As she did, not only Nemain, but Badb as well were drawn back into her, and she was as he had first seen her as to his surprise, she joined them on the cool stone floor, kneeling as well.

It still did not quite bring her to his height, and it oddly did not seem in any way as though she had lowered herself with the gesture. If anything, he felt more humbled and a bit awed that she had deigned to come nearer to them, and he folded his head forward in respect as she turned first to his fellow wizard. "Seamus o' Ulster, Black Knight, ya will leave here to the hall o' Cuchulainn, and there ya will learn humility without abasement, to let the heat o' your passion be the forge that strengthens, not shatters your sword. Go now, and when ya return, return prepared, for ya will Quest to fetch the Sword o' Findias."

For once, there was no trace of arrogance, defiance, or anger to Seamus' response. His mouth had dropped open in abject astonishment when she had named his intended teacher, and though Neville was not precisely familiar with who it was, he had heard the name used often enough in simple invective by his former friend that the magnitude of it did not escape him. Yet even if it had, the look of sudden humility on the face that these days seemed capable only of anger and scorn would have been enough to speak volumes itself, and Seamus dropped forward nearly prostrate onto the stone, his fingers tentatively grasping a loose fold of her robes for a brief, grateful kiss.  _"Bandia cinnte."_

She nodded as if the profound veneration were merely expected, then took his hand to lift him to his feet, and Neville saw that the feeling must have been identical to what he had experienced, though he was pettily certain that he hadn't pulled nearly such a face. No further orders were needed, or if she gave them, it was as silently as she had perhaps spoken to him before, and Seamus merely gave another, far less dramatic bow, then backed slowly away the first several steps before turning to make his way across the long hall.

The Morrigan waited until he had completely gone before her eyes left the door that had now open and shut behind someone whom he had never imagined he could be so happy to be rid of for so long. "Neville o' York, Green Man, ya will leave here to the hall o' Conall Cernach, and there ya will learn conviction without pride, to lead your own destiny as well as your heart leads others. Go now, and when ya return, return prepared, for ya will Quest to fetch the Horn o' Borabu."

He had expected the same overwhelming wave of gratitude, somehow, but there was instead a deep, instinctual surge against her words, and he was amazed at how quickly and easily his reply came. "No."

Her head jerked to the side, her hair whipping back as if in a sudden, invisible gust of wind, and Neville recoiled, scrambling backwards as Nemain's face erupted from the side of her head in a rictus of furious umbrage. "Ya wanted pride from him, sister, but he spits it in your face! He should die here and now for –"

The Morrigan tossed her hair back, smoothing it down over the face that had gone again as though it had never happened, though her reply was not to him, but to herself. "Too hasty, ya are. 'Tis sense in his heart…" and now she did look up at him again, one eyebrow raised slightly. "But we shall hear him before we go further."

"I'm not ungrateful, and I know you sent Finnigan to train with someone incredible, someone who's such a fixture in your myths that you literally  _swear_  by him. I've heard Finnigan use his name like I use Merlin's. But the one you chose for me…I don't know the name, but..." he paused, searching for the words to pair to the instinct that still remained so ineluctable but strong.

At last, he sighed and began again, hoping that he could explain himself well enough for the calmer facet of the triple Goddess to prevail. "You called me Son of York, but that's more than where I was born. I'm willing to learn, even to fight my own weaknesses, but some things, like the stoicism Seamus hates so much – that's a part of who I am and where I'm from, and even if I don't feel the way some wizards do about being a Pureblood, I'm not ashamed of my heritage, and I'm not going to spend ten years trying to become something I was never meant to be at the hands of someone who can't really understand who I am to begin with."

He wasn't sure what reaction he really expected, though he knew several that he feared, but although there was thankfully no sign of Nemain, her eyes had grown cloudy, the pupils barely shadowed, and she actually seemed more satisfied with than shocked or affronted by his statement. "Brave we knew ya were, but ya prove it again, proud Son o' Pretani." She motioned to the door, the sleeveless tunic casting the shadow of trailing, diaphanous robes draped from her arm. "You're true to yourself, and that shall be honored. Go now, and when ya leave here, your heart will carry ya through the mists and to your own Avalon. Serve your apprenticeship there, under your own hero o' the Quest, your own Sir Kaye, and when ya return, return ready."

Now the gratitude did tumble over him, so complete and incredible that he was barely able to form words past it, aware that he sounded less a would-be warrior receiving an honor than a boy who had just been promised ice cream sundaes for dinner every night of his life. "Oh, I will, ma'am!" He reached out, intending to kiss the hem of her robe as Seamus had done, but a brief glint of metal warmer than the silver cuffs on his wrists caught his eye, and he was yanked back from the glee into the harsh reality of its necessity.

He didn't need to look up to know that she knew why he had stopped, and though he didn't meet her eyes, the promise was just as softly spoken, just as intimate and just as little to her as he ran the tip of his thumb softly over the curve of his wedding ring. "Whether it takes ten years or ten thousand."


	19. Green Man and Black Knight

The door vanished the moment he opened it, fading from his hand, and he didn't pass over the threshold, rather there simply ceased to be one. One step, he had been in the Hall of the Morrigan, but now he was somewhere else, somewhere shrouded in a fog so heavy that all the world was featureless, blank and white and cool, the existence of anything beyond an arm's reach barely suggested in vague whirls and shadows.

Neville turned back, realizing that he had no idea what he was supposed to do here, that he'd failed to ask even the simplest questions, but as he spun, something heavy slapped against his hip, startling him, and his eyes widened as he looked down. It was a sword.

The clothes that the Sidhe had given him had changed completely, and a boyish thrill shot through him as he took in his new attire. The silver cuffs and bracelet were gone, but his upper arms still gleamed with the fish-scale shimmer of fine chain mail that proved surprisingly heavy when he raised his hands to examine it further. It came just to his elbows, his forearms wrapped in tight linen sleeves and long, laced leather gauntlets at his wrists. As he looked down, he saw that the flexible armor was worn beneath a sleeveless woolen tabard that hung almost as long as his usual robes. A crest of divided red and blue with a gold chevron and a trio of what looked like hunting horns was embroidered on his chest, and his waist was circled by a leather belt, knotted at the front, that also held the sword in a long scabbard against his side.

"I'm a  _knight…"_  He was afraid to raise his voice above a whisper, afraid that it would somehow all become a figment of the mist, but despite the gravity of the situation that had brought him to this, despite all the agonizing loss of the past days and weeks, he was still barely into his twenties, and he couldn't help the grin that lit his face as he drew the sword. It was far less elaborate than the Sword of Gryffindor – the only other time he had actually held such a weapon – but it was  _his_ , and the smile widened as he lashed it through the mist in a few wide practice strokes. "This is  _so_ awesome _."_

Like every other boy, he had devoured the Merlin Sagas, and although the knights and court of Camelot had only been backdrop to the exploits of the famous wizard, he knew that they'd had some fairly impressive magic of their own, and he shivered with excitement as it began to sink in that they were stories no longer. It was real, and he was here, in Avalon, and…oh, would that mean he might actually meet the greatest, the most legendary sorcerer of all time?

Neville swallowed hard, the excitement suddenly tempered with no small measure of intimidation. When he'd been taken to meet the Queen, there had been all manner of protocol about when to kneel and when to stand and how to bow and how to properly address her; surely it would be no less for someone as powerful as Merlin himself.

If he recalled the illustrations in the old leather-bound tomes correctly, he should probably get down on one knee, the sword held flat across his palms and offered up, but then what? Lord Merlin? Sir Merlin? Your Majesty? Your Highness? And how to introduce himself? Just plain Neville Longbottom didn't seem quite right. No one in those books called themselves anything like that, and the closest he'd ever had to a title was 'Commander,' and that didn't fit either. Maybe Neville of York, like the Morrigan had called him? Or –

A woman's scream startled him out of his musings, high and sharp with panic, and he whirled quickly, all thoughts of the proper address of storybook heroes forgotten in the shrill reality of that shriek. It came again, and this time it was enough to discern a general direction, and he broke into a run, trying not to stumble over unseen obstacles in the mist.

It began to clear within a few paces, and now he could see that he was in a forest, thick and primeval, but still familiar; the oak and ash, yew and chestnut speaking unquestionably of home, of England. The screams were growing louder now, one after another in rising hysteria, and he could feel his heart beginning to pound, but to his surprise it was only half from adrenaline. The mail was much heavier now that he was actually sprinting in it, and he had forgotten the weight of a proper broadsword, as well as what an unwieldy thing it really was, much less the scabbard that kept trying to tangle his legs.

Then none of it mattered, because a small clearing had opened in front of him, and the source of the screams was clear. A young girl, no more than sixteen, with the rough dress and windburned cheeks of a peasant, her pretty face flushed and distorted in fear. She was pinned with her back against a thick oak, struggling frantically but helplessly beneath the grip of an armor-clad knight whose own sword still hung casually at his hip, unneeded as he held her thin wrists in a single gauntleted hand.

"Get off her!" The knight turned at Neville's shout, and the young wizard had a single glimpse of a handsome face and deep brown eyes before the faceplate of the helmet was slammed down, the sword drawn and a shield raised from the forest floor in a single motion. He had indeed abandoned the girl, who took the opportunity immediately, fleeing to safety, but Neville didn't bother to watch her go. The sense of triumph was instantly and completely lost under the far more immediate understanding that he had made a very large mistake.

This man held the sword with no awkwardness at all. It was a weightless extension of his arm as he flicked it through light, teasing patterns in the air, gesturing with the shield to goad his challenger forward. Neville took a step back instead.

The girl was gone, there was no reason to fight such an obviously more experienced opponent. He needed to follow her example and get out of there, find Sir Kaye as the Morrigan had told him, start his apprenticeship so that he could fulfill his quest and stop the Diabhal Dubh. Randomly picking fights with strangers over peasant girls, he was quite sure, was not a part of that, and he wondered bleakly whether he had managed to screw things up this quickly.

Before he could try to run, however, it was too late. His beckoning ignored, the knight charged, and Neville was forced instantly on the defensive. He spun away from the first stroke, but just barely, and even though the knight wielded his one-handed, he used both hands on his own hilt, and even then it was hard to check the momentum of each stroke, to bring it back to parry anywhere near in time, to prevent himself being thrown wildly off balance in the slick, loose footing of the leaves where the soft leather of his boots offered no traction at all.

He could tell that the knight was just playing with him, barely exerting himself, and he felt a growing, familiar rage as he could all but see the smirk beneath the faceplate that gleamed the mocking silver of a Death Eater's mask, of the Diabhal Dubh's followers. A reckless strength, hated and yet welcome surged through him, and he whirled beneath the next blow, dropping to the ground in the quick somersault learned perhaps five years in the past or a thousand years in the future to come up behind and under his enemy's guard.

The blow should have struck home perfectly – his aim was true, all his weight behind the arc of the blade – but he had underestimated the other man's incredible agility in the bulky-looking armor. He dodged easily out of the way, coming back with a retaliatory strike of his own before Neville could recover.

It was the mail shirt that saved his limbs, if not his life. Both arms exploded in pain as the sword crashed down hard across his biceps, and his hands fell open in nerveless shock as he heard himself cry out from the brutal hit. Neville scrambled backwards, arms throbbing wickedly, hands utterly numb, sick choking the back of his throat in pain and panic alike as he looked around desperately for some kind of weapon, shield, anything that would mean he wasn't wholly at the knight's mercy until he could at least recover enough to try and get his own weapon…but then he stopped, his mouth dropping open in complete incomprehension.

The knight had sheathed his own sword, laid down his shield, and now the faceplate was pushed back again, and he was laughing, but not at all a malicious or triumphant laugh over a helpless foe. It was an easy, good-natured, boisterous laugh, and he reached down, scooping up Neville's sword and holding it out hilt-first. "Chivalrous of heart and valiant of spirit, yet these poor veil and substitute for thy piteous claim to arms. How came thee twice named upon the field if any swaddling babe could turn thy blade?"

Neville shook his head slowly, fumbling to force his still-numb fingers to take the sword and barely managing not to drop it entirely, though he still couldn't raise or guide it into the scabbard as his eyes narrowed at the man he had so recently been quite sure was trying to kill him. He was in his early forties or so, strong-featured and proud, with the unspoken air of nobility that was present in many of the oldest Pureblood families. "How do you…" he began, then paused as the truth dawned on him. "Sir Kaye?!"

His smile widening, the knight gave a brief, courtly bow. "'Tis a name I answer, though the Welshman calls me Cei, the Centurion Gaius, the Gaul Queux. All of one soul before Christ, one sword before my King, and one heart before my Lady. And you would be Neville of York, descended perhaps of Mor?"

"I don't know," he admitted bemusedly. "But then…the girl, all of it, was that just a test of some kind? Even though you bloody near chopped my arms off?"

"I would take the measure of a man myself if I am bade take him to hand long after he should have served page and squire." Kaye chuckled as Neville managed to struggle the sword back to its scabbard, then rubbed at his aching arms gingerly, trying to assess if there was any damage beyond deep bruising. "They swore sent me a youth," the older man said dryly, "but thy pretty boyhood would seem long flown."

"Sorry," Neville muttered through gritted teeth, "I didn't realize I was all that old, though I don't think I've  _ever_ been what you'd call 'pretty.' Don't mean to disappoint you."

He knew he should probably hold his tongue out of respect, that he was talking to a figure of legend, but it was hard to see him that way, particularly when he'd been so soundly beaten by someone not at all like the ethereal inhabitants of the Oweynagat. Kaye was short, maybe Seamus' height, his cheeks pockmarked from some childhood illness, and he was as real, as flesh and blood human as Dumbledore had been, as Harry, Moody, and every other near-mythic person he'd known.

Kaye circled him slowly now, clearly considering something, then lifted his hand to prod Neville under the chin and urge him to stand straight, prompting a low whistle. "By the cross, thou may be fifteen or fifty, but they made no mention thou were a giant. Thou may stand by eye with Lancelot himself, no less, and well a head above most. Is it by this mass of clay they fancy I shall mold my Hector?"

Neville blushed, shrugging. "I'm kinda tall, I guess, I just never –"

"Not lacking breadth to match thy stature," Kay continued as if he hadn't spoken, his comments addressed half to himself. "Thy hands bespeak honest toil, thy face is scarred, but so poorly availed thee…" He cupped his chin in his hand, tilting his head. "An archer, perhaps, art thou? Length of limb enough for a heavy draw in aged yew, but unbroken to the sword?"

"No, sir."

"The battle-axe, then? The lance? The mace?" Each weapon he named met with only an increasingly embarrassed shake of the head, and Kaye frowned. "The heathen scimitar? The crossbow? Cudgel? Faith, didst thee answer the cry of Mars with naked fists?!"

"I used a wand, really," Neville offered. "It was a wizard's war, that's what we all used. I mean, I've fought with my fists a couple of times, and I've used a sword once before, but it was just improvising at the time. I'm more than happy to admit that I've got no clue what I'm doing with it, and that one doesn't seem half as ready to take matters into its own hands as the last one did."

"Ah…." Kaye nodded in satisfaction. "A magician's apprentice, that would mete this riddle. But mine to turn thee to the path of knighthood, and not a foot set prior to it I would be bold to say."

His smile was almost paternal, and Neville found himself returning it self-consciously. "Well, I've been told we have up to ten years if you think it's that bad."

"Each fair moment well appointed," Kaye agreed. Picking up his shield again, he slung it over his shoulder and motioned to the edge of the woods. "Come, Neville, thou may mount my second and guide me to where thine own is hobbled, then away we at once to Caer Gai."

"Your second what?" Neville followed, frowning curiously, but he had his answer almost at once.

Barely twenty feet away, but still well-concealed by the close-growing trees, two saddled horses waited, their hind legs loosely tied by some kind of leather strapping. The nearer one was pale gray, the other deep brown, but both were immense, the top of his head barely clearing the base of their necks, their feet the size of dinner plates and their flanks rippling with bands of muscle that wouldn't look out of place on small dragons.

He felt his face fall pale as Kaye approached the first, slipping off the tether and nuzzling the huge nose as casually as if it were a pet dog. It snorted softly, then knelt, and the knight climbed up onto the broad back, settling himself as easily as riding a broomstick while it rose again. Man and horse turned together, the steps unexpectedly light and agile, pivoting on the tug of the reins the rider held loosely in one hand as he gestured to the second horse with the other. "Balius shall kneel for thee."

Taking a deep breath, Neville forced himself forward, trying to remember that he'd ridden a thestral before, even as sanity insisted that it had been a lot smaller and he hadn't actually tried to  _ride_ it, just sit on it while it did its own thing. Despite the assurance, Balius seemed quite disapproving of the entire idea, the dark eyes regarding him suspiciously as the horse lowered its ears, stamping a front hoof in what looked a lot like warning.

"Firm to hand, thou art man and he beast! Recall thee Adam's order, and let us have no more of this laggardry!"

He licked his lips, remembering Hagrid's oft-repeated maxim from Care of Magical Creatures.  _Don't show fear._ Drawing back his shoulders, he strode up in his best mimicry of confidence, untying the bonds as he had seen the other man do, then feeling a huge surge of relief as Balius knelt dutifully the moment they were released. Maybe this would work out after all.

Getting into the saddle was harder than Kaye had made it look, but he managed to keep his seat even as it stood. Feeling a little more sure of himself now, he picked up the reins, but the instant he pulled them in what he thought was how it had looked like it was supposed to turn, he knew he'd done wrong. Balius snorted fiercely, and he only had a brief flash of something shouted too late before the powerful back surged and arched.

The next thing he knew, he was flying through the air, then he hit the ground with a crushing impact that drove every gasp of air from his lungs, leaving him dazed and blinking up at blue sky through dappled green leaves. He hurt all over now, not just where he'd already been struck with the sword or where the scabbard had dug a new groove through his hip and back, and he closed his eyes ruefully, unable to draw enough breath to answer Kaye's admonishments, nor particularly caring at the moment.

No matter what time was like here, it was going to be a long ten years. And despite how ridiculous it had seemed when the Morrigan had first suggested it, he was beginning to suspect that he probably needed every day.

OOO

They had been right; there really was no way to follow time. Neville had tried, marking each day first on the wall of his room, then attempting to scratch the tic marks into his own skin, but the next morning, they were always gone, and he soon lost track completely of how many there had been. Tracking by the moon or the seasons proved equally fruitless as he realized that the crescent could follow the full moon within a single night, and several days blanketed in snow could lead immediately into a spate of scorching summer's heat. Even his body offered no clues to the passage of weeks or months or years. He didn't seem to be aging, no new lines appearing at his eyes or strands of silver in his hair, and he had long ago lost the excess weight he had carried in childhood, so the thickening of a callus on his hands  _here_  against the fading of one  _there_ , endurance and strength that wasn't so much greater as simply different, more refined to a particular task told him only that it had been…well, a while.

Life at Caer Gei bore the simplistic steadiness of a long-vanished world that had never known newspapers or wireless broadcasts, and it only deepened the achronicity. Rather than the complete isolation that he had first been told to expect – and which he was quite sure was probably still the case for Seamus and his Celtic icon – the castle was almost a small town, peopled with craftsmen and servants, men-at-arms and even peasants and clergy whom he was told had earned their place in Avalon for their steadfast loyalty to Arthur and his knights.

It was an easy, pastoral existence on the surface, but beneath it beat an unspoken thrum of readiness, anticipation, and he soon discovered that they all considered themselves merely waiting to return with their once and future King upon his nation's need, and his attempts to tell them that it had been over a thousand years, that Britain had risen and fallen as an empire more than once were met with nothing but indulgent smiles and the calm assurance that the day would come and they would be ready.

At first, he had been frustrated by this, but then he had come to accept it as well, although it came for him not with hope, but a measure of dread. He rose like the rest of them to search the dawn sky for Arthur's standard, but his sigh was relief each time nothing but the sun broke the horizon. Neville had no idea how much time had passed in the outside world, if any at all, but it was the closest thing he had to a tether to that distant life – the unspoken promise that at least it wasn't  _that_ bad. And if he thought about what he had himself lived though and what he knew of in history that hadn't qualified as that bad either, but could still very well be taking place…timeless or not, it didn't take him long to just  _not_ think about it for his own sanity.

There were plenty of other things to occupy himself with. For a long time, his tasks had been maddeningly menial; taking care of Kaye's armor, feeding and currying the two destriers, cleaning and sharpening the knight's personal arsenal of weapons. But he had to admit that it had taught him comfort around the animals, a familiarity with the implements of this world's war, and by the time Kaye had declared him ready to begin learning proper combat techniques, the sword sat far more easily in his hand than it once had.

This by no means made it easy. Neville had always unconsciously regarded such old weapons as primitive bludgeons used by uncivilized people who simply knew no greater finesse, but they proved to require a huge amount of knowledge and skill to use correctly, and there were endless things to learn for each one, not to mention the thousands of hours of sheer physical practice necessary to become at all proficient.

Kaye was hot-tempered and could be a harsh teacher at times, but his knowledge was detailed and encyclopedic, and he was patient when need be, ready to show and show again how to pivot through the hips with the swing of the broadsword, keeping your elbows loose but your spine straight to take the shock of each blow with the powerful muscles of the shoulders and upper back. How to tuck your thumb so that the twisted string of the longbow – a weapon that required such controlled strength that he wasn't even allowed to touch it until he could lift his entire body on the first two fingers of his right hand – didn't rip your hand apart on the release of the arrow. How to find the balance of a lance so that the eight foot pole maneuvered as easily as a conductor's baton. How to keep your heels down and grip with your inner thighs on horseback, guiding the beast with your legs alone to leave your hands open to fight.

Through it all, Kaye talked. Sometimes he simply regaled the younger man with tales of his own exploits – slaying the Giant Wrnach and Dillius the Bearded, rescuing a boy named Mabon from an impenetrable underwater prison – but more often it was about Chivalry.

Neville had always thought about that virtue in simplistic terms, nothing more than a trait rattled off in the Sorting Hat's song to describe his own former house. To Kaye, however, it was much more. It was an entire philosophy for life, and he extolled it with the fervency of a true believer, how it was about self-control and service, strength and humility, bravery and wisdom, resistance to temptation and the endless search for justice.

And, of course, he talked about the Quest. The Quest had very little to do, it seemed, with actually finding anything, and Kaye didn't care that the one he spoke of most often, seeking the Holy Grail, had never technically succeeded. The important part, he explained , was that it was a test of a knight's commitment to the Chivalric code and his prowess as a warrior for his King. So important was the Quest that knights would fight over the honor of being able to undertake one, and Kaye made no effort to hide his disdain for his fellows, particularly Gawain and Percival, whom he felt valued the glory of a Quest more than its deeper purpose.

So customary had these lessons and lectures become that when Neville joined his mentor on the tournament field one springlike day, he was stopped speechless in his tracks to see that Kaye was not only silent, but unarmed. He was clad only in a simple, undyed woolen tunic and hose, on his knees with his head bowed and hands crossed tightly over his chest. Looking around, there were no signs of targets or leather-padded dummies, no page waiting with wooden bodkins or shining weapons, and he frowned, hesitating as he approached the motionless warrior. "Sir Kaye?"

There was no reply, and Neville waited several seconds before calling his name again, then reached out tentatively to touch his shoulder. "Sir –" The moment his hand touched the rough fabric, he let out a sharp cry, yanking back in shock.

Kaye was hot. Not just the normal warmth of a human body, or even the scorch of a high fever, but the burning, impossible heat of a live ember. Neville stared incredulously at his fingertips as fat, liquid blisters sprang up white beneath the thickened skin. Now that he looked more closely, the grass beneath Kaye's knees was charred black, but his clothing was unsinged, his hair still falling in loose, light brown waves to his shoulders when by all rights both should have been aflame.

"Hast thou forgotten thy former teachings so wholly that magic startles thee such?" There was no rebuke to his tone, just a calmness and soft amusement that he was quite unaccustomed to from the normally boisterous and opinionated man, and Neville gasped as he realized what had really been said.

"You're a  _wizard?"_

"My blood carries magic as true as thine," Kaye agreed, and now he finally stood and turned to face his charge, the heat still radiating off his body in heavy waves. "I am known as one of the Three Enchanter Knights of Britain. I have held it of assumption from the first that thou were not innocent of this as why I were chosen to stand thy liege, though by thine blasted look I would think perhaps my judgment sore miscast. Must I school thee atop all else that magic may be keen as any dirk?"

"But—" Neville shook his head, confusion struggling against a growing surge of frustration and no small measure of betrayal. "Why all this, then? Tactics and training and bucklers and chain mace and months and probably  _years_ if you've been a wizard all along?! I thought the whole point was that magic couldn't do anything against the Diabhal Dubh's creatures!"

"That which I have taught thee shall still prove quite dear, be not so quick to slander!" Kaye retorted. "But this thee should take more swiftly and shall be of equal keep, for theirs and mine and thine and all other are but branched of a single root, and that root be faith."

He could count on one hand the number of times he had actually argued with Kaye through all their time together, but he couldn't restrain himself. "That's not true! I mean, yeah, I knew some people who believed in God one way or another – Tony, the Patil twins, Oisin, Jack, Li, a couple others – but their faith didn't protect them, and I know just as many wizards who  _don't_ believe in God at all and still have really strong magic."

"But faith it is, all the same," Kaye insisted. "And without it, magic remains but a spark in absence of tinder to catch and thus the flame dies aborning."

"Weren't you listening? Riddle  _certainly_ didn't have faith, and he –"

"Thy villainous Riddle had faith deep indeed…faith of himself, graven idol erected in the mirror's frame. His power was great and thus the wellspring of self-faith drank deeply, and 'tis from this same well or that of faith in tradition, of knowledge, of sacred talismans of chosen words and practiced acts that succored thy supposed faithless friends as well. Hast thou not seen magic poor attempted and failed by those true faithless?"

Neville considered it a moment, struggling to untangle the meaning from the archaic language. He had grown far more familiar with it, and most of the time he didn't even have to think, but it could still be difficult sometimes. If faith was taken to mean belief in  _anything_ , even yourself, then it could also be called confidence, really, and he nodded slowly. "The first thing they taught us at Hogwarts was that if you didn't think you could do a spell, you couldn't. You had to mean it, and –" The image of Terry's tear-streaked face and green flash burst out of memory with unexpected poignancy, and his voice dropped to a husky whisper. "—the stronger the curse, the more vitally important the unity of intent and procedure."

"Then the strongest magic, thou would agree, is born of deepest faith?" Kaye prodded.

He was still unwilling to just accept the theory blindly, but it no longer seemed entirely ludicrous, and he nodded again, arms crossed suspiciously. "If you're saying what I think you're saying, sure."

"And greater is the strength of many than the strength of one man, is this not also a truth?"

"Yes…."

"Then magic held by a faith in oneself, no matter how powerful thou art, should ever fall before magic wielded by one whose miracles are nourished by a higher source?" He reached beneath his collar, pulling out an iron cross. "I hath struck wounds no physician's arts may heal, I hath stepped beneath the water's crest for nine days and nights, and for this I claim no glory, for all the strength was that of my Lord. Baptized and shriven, my sins are nothing, and the breath of God was what filled my mouth. Thy Diabhal Dubh has sold himself harlot to the Prince of Darkness. Where stand thee, Neville, son of Franklin?"

"I…." He paused awkwardly. The subject of Kaye's intense Christianity had occasionally caused some tension between them in Neville's refusal to accept the Bible and the teachings of the Church as literal truth, but he had never felt truly cornered about it until now. He licked his lips, but a knight was ever honest, and he met Kaye's eyes without flinching. "I stand for myself, then, and that'll just have to do. I believe there's something larger, but I'm not about to worship anything because a book or a tradition tells me to. And in my mind, if there really is an all-powerful God, it wouldn't be petty enough to condemn me for not picking the 'right' option out of all the ones that claim to be, or for not picking at all."

"A fool, thou art, and a fool damned, 'tis pity, but thy soul is not mine to argue before Saint Peter," Kaye sighed. "Yet still, prithee, thou hast made speak before of thine own deeds, and in this it was mine suspect that thou hast set thine heart to greater things than thyself. Search thy heart, man! What dost thou believe? For what principle, what cause, what King, what Lady, what Truth would thee go to thy grave without hesitation?"

The answer was both easier and harder than he had expected. Easier because when it was put that way, there were many things he held dear, but harder, so much harder because of what they were. He had been careful never to allow himself to become lost in his life at Avalon, refusing to remove his wedding ring and taking time every day while Kaye was at prayer to think of those he'd both lost and left behind, but still….

"I believe that the strong should protect the weak." He started there, wanting to skirt the more painful things that had occurred to him with something he knew Kaye would approve, but the knight's penetrating stare was unmollified, and he swallowed hard at the unspoken order to go on.

"I believe that in the end, love is stronger than hate. That giving yourself for someone else is more powerful than any other magic or act ever can be. That there's always justice, somehow, eventually, even if we can't see it. Because…." His voice choked, almost breaking. "Because there's  _got_ to be, because things happen that couldn't be coincidence, so it can't be random, and I can't believe that any world where a  _weed_  is so perfect and detailed and delicate could be essentially evil, so it's got to be essentially good, even if it doesn't seem that way sometimes."

He stopped now, not because it was hard, but because there was nothing more to say, and he spread his hands helplessly, grateful when Kaye gave the curt half-smile that he knew to mean approval. "Thus thy creed, then, but to whom loft thee thy prayers? Where keep thee this creed incarnate?"

Neville thought of the few times he had tapped into the terrifying depths of his own true magical potential, something that according to Kaye, had not been himself at all. The concept was at once overwhelming and strangely comforting, and his fingertips tingled with the mere memory of what that kind of power had felt like. "The people I love, and who loved me," he said quietly. "My parents. Hannah."

Kaye raised his hands, and a sword formed in them out of thin air, not a simply manifested blade, but a weapon made entirely of white-hot flames. He tossed it from one hand to the other as easily as if it had been cool steel, and the flickering glow lit the challenge in his eyes as he began the familiar half-crouching circling that always prefaced a sparring session. "Then gird thyself with thy creed and arm thyself with thy faith, and let us see if thou art but a mere conjurer after all!"

He had no choice, and he knew it, but Neville did not hesitate, even though he didn't truly understand what he was even doing.  _Faith._ He closed his eyes, deliberately acting against the long-honed mandate to never lose sight of your opponent.  _What do I believe in? What gives me power?_

Their faces were more vivid than he had expected. So vivid, so close that he could almost reach out and touch them again, could feel their hands on his skin, hear their voices again, and there was so much trust in their eyes. They had gone to their deaths with heads high and far too young because they believed in the same things he did, and they believed in  _him,_ and he in turn had drawn his strength from theirs. Neville opened his heart to the bitter innocence of the memories without reservation.

_You gave yourselves to me. I give myself to you. I have since the very beginning. I've done it all for you. All of you. I loved you all. Heaven help me, I still do._

The hilt was cool and hard beneath his fingers, and he knew even before his eyes opened what he held. It was the same rubied and carved handle that had come through flames and fallen guardians once before, and the gilt name of Godric Gryffindor dazzled the air as he wielded it with new skill and unchanged passion.

Both magical swords were well-matched, and Kaye was centuries more experienced, but though the passage of time didn't necessarily matter, Neville had still stepped into Avalon the younger man, and he had the advantage of height and a longer reach. Bit by bit, he began to push Kaye onto the defensive, but then the knight grinned, and the tables turned once more as in the blink of an eye he seemed to swell and shoot upwards, growing at once to be if anything a few inches  _taller_ , and now it was Neville inching backwards, parrying more often than he attacked, blocking higher and wider than he would have liked.

He didn't even think. He just did it. He needed his own advantage, his own counter-attack, and it was  _there_ , and as the flaming sword flashed past his guard, it struck against flesh that had armored itself to the hardest teak, and Neville switched the Sword to his left hand, reaching out with his right…reaching, reaching as his fingers extended in lashing, writhing tendrils of rope-tough vine, snapping tight around Kaye's ankle and biting thorns into the leather boot to grip, then whipping back again.

The fiery sword vanished in a wisp of smoke as Kaye hit the ground flat on his back, and Neville pushed the tip of Gryffindor's blade into the grass, knowing as he stepped away that it would be gone when he turned back, but still smiling as he extended his hand – mere flesh and bone again – in offer. "Faith enough, Sir?"

Kaye accepted it with a hand no warmer than any man who had just exerted himself, pulling himself up again with rueful laughter. "Thou needed littler tutelage than even I had thought in this! Methinks perhaps if I hath made of thee Hector, then as Priam I must look to my throne in hope that thy filial love is true and uncovetous! Where, I beg, did thy heart at last set?"

"My friends," he admitted honestly. "My friends and my wife, and how much they trusted me, and that if I believe anything, it's that with that much love and trust and sacrifice and…and  _faith_  behind me, the Diabhal Dubh isn't going to know what hit him any more than you did." Neville was astonished to find himself smiling so broadly, but he felt buoyant, invincible, stronger and more deeply so and in more ways than he had ever been, and he realized that not only did he believe every word of what he said, but that the thought of facing the Diabhal Dubh again brought only eagerness. There wasn't the slightest trace of fear, and really, why should there be?

The Diabhal Dubh was one man, tied into a mere bifurcated and truncated portion of an ancient religion that had rules and limits that could be turned against him if you knew how they worked, supported by creatures who – even if invulnerable to magic – he now knew more than enough ways to kill.

Why should he fear one man when he held the faith of an army?

OOO

_He was four years old, up in his room with the covers pulled up tight against the slimy, smelly stuff smeared on his chest and making his nose burn, a crayon clutched tight in one small, freckled fist. He knew he was supposed to use the little stick on the string to draw over and over again on the toy's smooth screen, but he liked the colors more, and Mam never yelled so much when he was sick. That was probably the only good thing about sick._

_Still, when the latch of his bedroom door clicked, he shoved the crayon under the pillow, flopping down and screwing up his face in the most miserable look he could. "Mornin', Mam."_

_His mother smiled at him, but there were bright streaks on her cheeks, her eyes swollen and edged in red, and he gasped. "Mam, you're cryin'!"_

" _I'm sorry, lamb." She took a deep breath as she sat on the edge of the bed, and his stomach churned in a way that had nothing to do with the sick when she pushed the ruined toy aside without a second look. "Your Da…he…he got very upset last night, he did."_

" _I know." He nodded nervously, remembering the fight that had been so much louder and scarier than anything before, that had made him crawl under the bed and jam his fingers in his ears to shut it all away. "He didn't like none that I'd made the biscies fly. 'Twas badder than just climbin', weren't it?"_

" _It scared your Da." She ran her fingers softly through his hair, smiling in a way that was all wrong. "Most little boys can't do that, so your Mam had to tell him that she's magic, like Nana and Papa."_

" _But that's the_ secret!"  _He shook his head so furiously that his swollen ears throbbed and he felt dizzy, but he was too shocked to care. "The biggest secret ya don't never tell!"_

" _It were wrong to keep it a secret," she explained gently. "It were a kind o' lyin', and ya know it's wrong to lie. That's nothin' but trouble."_

" _That's what made Da so mad?" he frowned. "Ya lyin'?"_

" _Aye, it was, and this mornin'…." She had begun to cry again, and he crawled out from under the covers and onto her lap to wipe her face with his sleeve. He hoped she wouldn't mind the bit of bogies there from where he'd wiped his nose before, but he didn't think she would. Mothers didn't get icked easily._

" _Don't be sad, Mam. Tell Da you're sorry and won't do it again and don't have no puddin' for lots o' nights." He offered the advice sagely, but it only seemed to make matters worse._

" _It's not so simple, or I would. I'd have no puddin' forever, but it's too late for that. He's…he's had to go away."_

_He made a face, not understanding. "Gone to count his mad?"_

" _No, Seamus, it's too much mad for that." Her shoulders were shaking a lot now, and it scared him to see her crying so bad when she was so clearly trying not to. "He's goin' to be gone a long time. Maybe for always."_

" _Oh, Mam…." The thought that Da might be gone forever was too bad to even really make sense, but it made sense that he had to go away for a long time because he was madder than ever, just like when he had to go to his room and count all the way to twenty. Da was grown, so he might have to count higher than that, maybe even to a hundred or a million billion._

_In the mean time, though, his mother was hurting, and Da always said he was the other man of the house. He said nothing, had no idea what he even could say, so he just wrapped his arms around her as far as they would go and held her, biting his lip when the coughs tried to come; because she was sad, she was hurting so bad, and it would be taking bad care of her to get germs in her hair, even if mothers didn't ick easily._

_He was seven, and he'd been in hospital for two weeks with pneumonia, and even though he'd been begging, pleading, trying in every way he could think of to be allowed outside again, this wasn't what he'd wanted. He was bundled up in so much clothing he could barely move, and he still felt cold all the way to his bones, but he wasn't about to tell his mother that, because she might take him back home, and even outside for something stupid was better than not outside at all._

_The chill drizzle kept trying to extinguish the candle in its little paper cup, but he held one gloved hand over it just enough to keep it lit without smothering it, and he tried to hide the rasping sound in his voice as he looked up at his mother, fidgeting from one foot to the other restlessly. "How's this goin' to do shite-all for—"_

_She rapped him sharply on the back of the head, her own face looking older than usual in the flickering, upward light. "Language!"_

_He rolled his eyes,_ not  _rubbing his head as he sighed and tried again. "How's this goin' to do_ anythin' _for Joey? They done buried him last week, didn't they? Ya brought me pie from the wake, and once a person's dead, ya got to light the candles in the_ church  _for their soul, dontcha? The special ones? What's it gonna do to have a bunch o' folk standin' round and singin' some fool song?"_

" _It's a protest, love," she explained. "It's not just for Joey, it's for all the people that were killed, and we're tryin' to make them stop."_

" _By holdin' candles in the fe—in the stupid rain?"_

" _It's about numbers, Seamus." She knelt, hoisting him up on her hip and standing again as she gestured out across the sea of little lights. Normally he hated that he was still small enough to pick up easily, but the view was so impressive that he craned his neck, trying to guess how many other idiots had been dragged out by their parents as she went on. "If thousands and thousands o' people all show that they don't think that bombs are the answer to the Troubles, and if famous people – and the lads up there are a very famous Muggle band – say that it's wrong, then that can put pressure on people to change. Like the way ya wanted Converse so bad because all your friends had them."_

_He considered this for several seconds, watching the man on the stage who was wearing sunnies even in the middle of the night as he held the microphone as if it were trying to get away from him. The song was the same one he'd heard over and over and over again every time something like this happened, and although he didn't want to argue with his mother on something she obviously believed, he couldn't help but think she was wrong._

_No matter how many times they played that song, eight year-old boys were still buried when bombs ripped apart the street. It didn't seem possible that so many people could be wrong, but why couldn't they see? The one with the power here wasn't the famous Muggle with the microphone and the ridiculous earring. The one with the power was whatever bastard had packed a pipe with nails and put six people in their graves and six thousand in the street._

_He turned in his mother's arms, not really noticing that his candle was guttering as the wax dripped onto his sleeve. "Why don't someone just kill the person who's doin' it, Mam? I don't think he's carin' much how many folk don't like it."_

" _Because it's many, many people who're doin' it, and it's wrong to be like them." The man had stopped singing now, and he asked them to bow their heads in a moment of silence, but although he did as he was told, he wasn't thinking about peace the way the man had asked._

 _He was thinking that there couldn't be nearly as many people who needed to be stopped as there were people in this street, and that was the problem, really. Standing and singing and fretting about the Troubles and burying their dead and having their moments of silence when something needed to be_ done _, someone needed to_ stop _this, and if there were people like him and his family with magic –_

 _It was the anger, the anger and the frustration and the hatred that he was only seven and sick and couldn't do anything about anything when the grownups_ wouldn't _. The authorities thought it must have been a shift of the wind and a bad batch of paper cups, but thankfully no one was hurt when a hundred candles went up like torches in a burst of flame, and thankfully no one noticed one little boy and his mother going straight home._

_He was twelve, and the snow would be too deep soon, but right now the ground was good and hard and it was barely a dusting, and the football soared easily across the frozen grass as he kicked it towards his best friend. Dean caught it on the side of his foot, popping it into the air and juggling it on his knees until he was hopping side to side impatiently. "Give it to us, now! You're hoggin' it! I thought we were playin' together!"_

" _Hold your horses! I want to show you this thing I've been working on, and I think—" Dean's tongue stuck out of the corner of his mouth as he frowned in concentration, cutting himself off. The ball went back and forth across his knees once more, then he knocked it high and dodged in a lightning-fast motion, catching it on his forehead and balancing it there for a moment before he let it fall. "Cool, huh?"_

" _Brilliant! Show me!" He darted forward, ready to grab it for a go himself, but he was interrupted by a nastily familiar drawling voice that made his shoulders tense in instant fury._

" _I wouldn't be showing off your little tricks right now, Thomas. You never know what might be watching, and whatever it is, it doesn't seem to like your kind." He whirled, knowing who it was even before he saw Draco standing there with his arms crossed, his two ever-present 'friends' positioned on either side like the bodyguards everyone knew they really were._

_Dean tilted his head, cocking one hand onto his hip as he rolled the ball on the ground beneath his foot in little figure-eights. "What kind is that, Malfoy? The kind that don't need their Daddy to put every thought in their head and their Mummy to dress them?"_

_The pale, pointed face flushed, but he knew the insult that was forming on those sneering lips, and the Slytherin hadn't even gotten the first syllable of "Mudblood" out into the chill November air before it was slammed away. He did a grand, sweeping goal-keeper's dive, tearing his robes and skinning all the way up the side of his ribs, but it was perfect nonetheless, his kick powering the ball right out from under Dean's foot and exactly, sweetly into Draco's face._

_Eventually, after a lot of pleading from Dean that they not get into any more trouble, he had come to accept that his stunt had cost them thirty House Points, but it didn't matter. What mattered, what stuck with him, what he never really forgot or forgave was that McGonagall had promised him that Professor Snape would be told what Draco had said, but even if she'd been telling the truth, nothing had happened._

_He'd counted the emeralds with magic three times a day for a week to be sure._

_And he was fifteen and staring down onto the Tournament field in horror as Cedric's pale, empty face looked up at them all, and he'd never felt so scared in his life, because that didn't come here, it wasn't right, it couldn't happen. And his mother said it didn't, that he could still trust the Ministry, the papers, Dumbledore, that it had to have been an accident and Potter just wanted attention. That was better, anything was better._

_But the Ministry sent Umbridge, and Potter's precious 'attention' was getting things carved into his hands, and it_ had _come to the wizarding world, and once again they were told to do nothing, nothing at all, just sit still and be good and let the people who hadn't stopped it stop it. At least there was the D.A., even if it wasn't much better, because it was the illusion, the promise that maybe someday they wouldn't be helpless._

_And he was sixteen and there was a gun in his mother's handbag, and she didn't answer and didn't have to when he asked her why. Because there were people dying all the time now, and it wasn't the Troubles, but the police and the government and even the Aurors didn't believe. The police didn't know and the Aurors didn't want it to be that bad._

_So like magical families all over Northern Ireland, they could just keep their heads down and start carrying non-magical weapons in hope of some protection, any protection against the bands of Death Eaters who used the pre-existent violence as an excuse to run rampant through wizard and Muggle worlds alike. Because even his mother knew now that a candle and a song meant nothing any more._

_And he was seventeen and Lavender's body was painted in pain beneath his hands, his lips, and he couldn't hardly touch her to try and make her feel good without making her wince. So at last he just had to hold her, wrap her in his arms, his sheets, his blankets, in every protective spell he had ever known and a dozen more he'd just made up, and it still wasn't enough._

_She still cried, and all he could do was hold her and lie that there'd been real revenge when all they'd done was too little too late. She still cried, and all he could do was kiss the back of her neck and murmur in her ear and let the Gaelic sound soft and soothing as he swore that if he ever got half a chance, those two bastards would never hurt another woman for the rest of their brief, painful lives._

_And he was eighteen and their great hope, their great hero hadn't even fought by their side. He'd been playing pity games while they died around him until he was ready for his big moment in the breaking, blood-red dawn. And all that year while they'd bled, he'd chased his tail, because the plan they were supposed to trust hadn't been a plan at all._

_It was all just more of everyone saying something would be done when nothing was. A thousand people coming just in time to be too late. They were probably downstairs right now, singing songs and holding candles and saying how wrong it had all been, but he didn't want to hear it. And when the last man in the world he had trusted found him and promised answers, but then had none to give, he wasn't really all that shocked._

_And he was twenty and curled on a park bench beneath a coat he couldn't remember stealing, his arm still burning from the last time under the needle and his head still throbbing, his throat still sour from what he needed more of so bad but couldn't afford to get right now. Someone was approaching, and he forced himself to sit up, readying the story about his girl tossing him out for the night so he didn't have to go to the lockup again._

_But it wasn't a copper, it was a young man in a suit, so he switched to glib and hopeful, swollen lips twisting a smile. "Spot me a bit o' help, mate? Couple –" The man didn't call him a name and walk by, didn't look away and toss a few coins; he called him by his_ own _name, and that night he slept in a bed and wore clean clothes and ate a hot meal and heard a reason to believe in something again, even if it was that things were once again bad and once again nothing was being done._

 _And he was twenty-one and the alley was dark and narrow and the knife came down again and again into the man with the van full of nasty toys from the old Soviet Union. And for the first time, he carved_ Sluagh _into the still-bleeding forehead and Apparated away, the timer already set to destroy the whole lot._

_Afterwards, even as he shook and vomited and wept from the horror of what he had done, the inhuman violence of his own actions, there was something deep, very deep that soared in a joy he had never imagined. He'd done something. Even if no one else would. Even if it cost him the bits of his heart that remained after trust and promises had taken everything._

"Neville?" He sat bolt upright, heart still hammering, the taste of bile still so sharp in the back of his throat that it was almost real, and he was utterly confused to find that the hands in front of him were large and rough and bloodless, that there was no barren Belfast flat, no brush of a long ponytail against his back as he shook his head. That the man standing at the foot of his bed wasn't Icarus; it was someone much older, dressed in clothing that was bizarrely old-fashioned –

Kaye. It was Sir Kaye. This was his own stone-walled bedroom and warm bed at Caer Gai, and he was Neville Longbottom, not Seamus Finnigan, and all of it…. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to oversleep," he gasped, and he was somewhat startled to hear the Yorkshire strains coming from his lips rather than a sing-song brogue. "I dreamed that –"

"It is of no matter what came upon thy dreams," Kaye snapped impatiently, and he barely caught the heavy bundle that the knight threw at him. "Dress well and quickly and attend thyself with care. The Morrigan hath called for thee."


	20. Undone

It was strange, saying good-bye to Kaye after so long, knowing that they would probably never meet again, but at the same time, it was a relief. As kind as the knight had been to him and as much as he had learned, Avalon was not his world, and it never could be, something he had never lost sight of. Kaye insisted on a last check of his weapons, an assurance that he remembered the principles of chivalry along with the more mundane details of checking a bowstring and lashing a lance, then he was asked to bow, and he felt genuinely both humbled and grateful as a priest was fetched to bestow a proper blessing.

The solemn ritual finished, his forehead now crossed with oil and the Latin words still echoing in his ears, Neville started to make his way towards the gate that lead from the courtyard of Caer Gai to the forest where he had first crossed into Avalon, but Kaye called after him, a long bundle wrapped in heavy tapestry appearing as he held out his arms. "Hold but a moment more, shall thee?"

"Sir?" He stopped as the cloth was unfolded to reveal a sword as beautifully worked as Gryffindor's own, the hilt made from what looked to be solid gold in the shape of a wingspread dragon, a brilliant red cross formed at the tang of the blade itself in flawlessly inlaid ruby that burned with an inner fire. His hand reached out of its own accord, his fingers hesitantly stroking the beautiful object even as he was careful to avoid the edges themselves, which seemed sharper than any weapon he had ever handled. "This is…."

"Ascalon, the sword of Saint George," Kaye said softly. "That with which he did slay the dragon in the name of God."

Neville glanced up to meet the other man's eyes, and he felt his widen incredulously. "You can't want  _me_ to have it? I'm not --"

"Thou shalt be standing for all Britannia in proof that she abandons not soil where she hath laid her crown, that she doth not merely stand in sovereignty but shall extend hand and blood to shield, and if thou art to stand witness to England's honor, thou may bear her arms unto the task." He pulled the cloth away entirely now, and Neville could see that the tapestry was worked with a beautiful portrayal of the Saint's famous confrontation with the long-ago beast, and the fabric folded itself in a seamless motion into the intricate strapping of a sheath and carriage with the leather tooled into the same design.

Kaye gave him a pointed look as he motioned it ahead again, and Neville held his breath as he took the sword in his hands, hardly daring to believe it was real even as he unclasped his old belt and let it fall in a clatter with the weapon he had practiced on all these years, the simple but faithful steel from Kaye's own arsenal. It had been a well-crafted sword, but  _this_ , this hung at his side so perfectly balanced as to be weightless, and every strap of the carriage seemed made to measure. Still struck speechless by the magnitude of the gift, he drew it to the sun, turning it to watch the play of light on the hairs-breadth edge and how the ridges of the dragon's neck molded to his fingers.

His mouth opened and closed in search of words, but Kaye smiled paternally. "Wield it well and do not see the sacred steel of Ascalon sullied but with the blood of the unrighteous, Neville of York."

"I…I will." Carefully, he returned it to its sheath, then hesitated before reaching into his purse for the precious few things he had managed to carry through all that had happened. His wedding ring he had sworn never to part with, and the Galleon had become the focal point of his magic now as surely as his wand once had, but there was one other thing, something just as precious, and he swallowed hard as he pushed it into Kaye's gauntleted hand. "I want you to have this. It's not nearly as grand as what you gave me, but it means a lot to me, and I don't have much that's really  _mine_  to give."

The knight stared quizzically down into his palm, prodding the small, round metal object with the tip of one finger and startling back when it popped open to reveal the delicately numbered face with its seven hands. "It was my father's," he explained quietly. "It's for keeping time, and it doesn't even work here, but it's the only thing I have of his, and…well…." Neville shrugged, uncertain of how to explain the sincerity behind such a patently useless gift, but to his surprise, Kaye seemed to understand perfectly.

"I shall keep it dearly." He tucked it into the small velvet pouch at his belt, then clasped the younger man in a tight, quick embrace before holding him out again at arms length. "Go now. The Morrigan and thy Quest await thee, and when you have finished with them, thy mount and all thy need shall be at ready."

Neville nodded, squeezing the mail-clad shoulders firmly and then stepping back. "Thank you again." And then there was no more to be said, and he took a deep breath, closing his eyes as he pushed open the gates and stepped through into what he knew would not this time be the wide green fields that for ten years had lain beyond.

Stone was beneath his boots, as he had expected, and he could hear his footstep echo in the cavernous hall, but there was something indefinably wrong, and when he opened his eyes, his hand went instantly to the hilt of his new sword, his shoulders tensing as his head snapped around to take it all in. It was the hall of the Morrigan, that much was obvious, but it was nothing like he had seen it last.

The smooth marble floor was pitted in a dozen places as if by fearsome explosions, blackened and radiating spiderwebbed cracks in all directions. Large sections of the stone buttresses were shattered to heaps of rubble, and sunlight shafted down from gaping holes in the roof in stabs of gold across dangling timbers to shimmer the dust motes that were the only sign of movement in the ruined room. The tapestries that had once so proudly blanketed the walls were limp beneath thick layers of dust and cobwebs or else hanging in shreds from their mountings, and everywhere, ominous dark stains splattered and streaked all too familiar patterns.

Drawing the sword, Neville took a slow step forward, every sense on high alert. The throne at the far end of the hall was overturned, one outstretched wing of the raven now nothing but a broken stub and a pile of jagged shards. There was no sign of the Morrigan, no sign of anyone or anything at all, but the hairs at the back of his neck were standing on end, and he could feel himself being watched from somewhere, by someone. Or some _thing_.

His grip shifted fractionally on the sword, and he was poised as he had been taught on the balls of his feet, ready to turn in any direction on the slightest notice, and he sucked in a slow, steady breath and held it, listening carefully in the perfect silence. There. It had been hidden in the rhythm of his own breathing, but now he could make out the faintly rasping in and out of another, and it gave him the instant's warning he needed.

Neville spun at the very moment the thing that had been watching him made its move, and it let out a roar of frustration as it streaked past in a blur of white and gray that should have knocked him easily to the ground. It hit the floor, rolled, scrabbled briefly on the remains of the polished marble, then it was on its feet again and they were circling, and he could get a clear look at his opponent at last.

It was a wolf, the biggest he'd ever seen, its iron gray fur bristling along a back that came nearly to his waist, long fangs bared over a menacing growl that made it clear that the hall had become  _his_  territory, and that he did not feel inclined to offer hospitality. The animal crouched low as they circled, narrow eyes searching for an opening to attack again, but Neville felt oddly little fear now that he knew what it was he faced.

The sword in his hands was an easy, confident presence now, and he flicked it lightly in warning, his gaze never leaving the wolf's. "Back off!" he said sharply, knowing that there was a more than reasonable chance that this was no mortal creature and that his words might well be understood. "I'll give you one warning, and then so help me, I'm not afraid to kill you!"

As if in scoffing answer to his warning, the wolf coiled and leapt for his throat, but Neville merely took a step back to keep the gap between them open enough for Ascalon to swing. A sword was no longer a foreign object, but a welcome and familiar tool, and it came up with unerring ease directly into the outstretched throat, aborting the roar of attack into a choking scream and gurgle as it was knocked from the air to crumple, legs paddling frantically beneath a rapidly spreading gush and pool of blood. He stared down at it, shaking his head at the foolish waste as he wiped the blade on a handful of his tunic, but then a second growl and scrabble of movement caught his attention too late, and he remembered in a burst of horror words from long, long ago.

Wolves never traveled alone.

The thing had a mate, and even as quick as he had become, by the time he had turned it would have been too late against the second beast hurtling from the shadows of the rubble, but there was a sharp twang, a flash of white that wasn't teeth, and it fell only inches away, collapsed onto the body of the first. Neville stared in stunned gratitude at the snow-fletched shaft of the arrow that protruded unerringly from behind its still-pinned ears, then his eyes came up and followed back along where it had come, and he felt his mouth fall dry at the sight he had somehow expected but was still utterly unprepared for.

"Seamus."

The word was both empty and laden with more than he could really express, not even knowing if he was glad to see the other man beyond gratitude for the rescue, and utterly unsure of where he stood now after years when he had been alternately dearest friend and harshest enemy. He didn't really think about how he himself must look now, armored and bearded, sword in his hand and heraldry blazoned across his chest as a man out of time, but he was still captivated by the wizard who stood across the hall, the bow still in his hands, a second arrow already notched and ready.

He seemed taller, but it was something in the way he carried himself, as if a burden had gone from his shoulders to allow him to stand with perfect pride, head high and chin raised in unspoken challenge. Unlike Neville himself, he was still clean-shaven, the line of knotwork still bright down the side of his face, and the rough tunic, the plated leather and bronze carapace, the painted armor that wrapped his forearms and shins suited him as much as the polished steel had suited Kaye. His hair was in a long braid twisted with blue cord that knotted the end, a quiver strapped to his back and a shorter, thicker sword at his waist barely visible behind a round wooden and leather-covered shield, and he looked every inch the warrior stepped cleanly from the pages of myth, leaving no dissonant note to suspect that he had once been a boy who chattered eagerly about his best friend's new Muggle computer games and the latest model of racing broom.

The silence hung heavily between them for a long moment, then Seamus let the arrow slip into his hand, spinning it to drop into the quiver without needing to look as he stepped forward into the laden space. " _Shoinsealamar. Anois fein_  –" he stopped with a look that was almost amused, shaking his head. "Feels bloody weird, it does. Catch me if off I am, should ya?"

Neville frowned guardedly. "Off?"

Seamus smiled, and it was the old, easy, self-deprecating grin from  _before_ , something that should have been such a relief, but which he steadfastly refused to allow to drop his guard. "Gotta get back into the hang o' speakin' English, so's do. Ain't used it one word in…."

"Ten years."

"Still don't watch your back. But a long time, that."

"Very."

His head tilted as the blue eyes raked Neville from head to toe and back again, but there was no reading the expression there until pure envy flashed with a sucked breath at the sword. " _Lovely_ , that, and  _luachmhar_. What's –"

"Ascalon, the sword of Saint George," he held it out, allowing the other man to see the beautiful workmanship but still keeping it clearly unspoken that it was no offer to take or touch. He didn't know where they stood yet, didn't know where on the delicate cusp of sanity Seamus might still falter, even whether his apparent solidity meant he had kept hold of his humanity itself, and he was taking no chances, not with the Morrigan gone and their future so direly uncertain. "England's sword."

"England's sword," Seamus repeated evenly, then looked around, gesturing with the silver-capped tip of his bow at the corpses of the wolves and the destruction surrounding them. "So, then, should England's sword be ready to stand by Ireland's fool son after he let his damned tongue run a dear friendship foul, or shall I be on me own in this mess, and ya be the just enough for't?"

Neville blinked, wondering if he had taken the meaning correctly. "You're apologizing? Just…like that?" It seemed bizarre from someone who had taken grudges to the point of murder, but then his memory swam back to the time he had spent behind those eyes the night before, and he understood with a flare of what wasn't unlike envy as Seamus nodded.

"I were wrong, simple's that. Don't know what it were, but I saw…."

"Into your life. Into your head. Since you were –"

"A little kid, aye, and they were thinkin' ya were just a –"

"—only a boy and your father –"

"—Squib and how everythin' your whole life were –"

"—left and your whole life was wishing you could –"

"—not good enough and all ya could do was –"

"—do something, anything to fight back."

"—keep to yourself and keep goin'."

Brown eyes held blue, and neither knew fully who was looking from behind which any more, because they knew each other in a way they scarcely knew themselves now, and although the anger and the hurt of the old words still ached, it wasn't, they couldn't  _let_ it be enough to stand between what had to happen now.

Slowly, Neville sheathed his sword, then reached out into the silence of the hall between them, swallowing hard. "I'm sorry."

The callused, freckled hand closed strong and hard over his, and Seamus' smile was two lifetimes deep, and he thought for a moment he saw the flicker of the dimple that sometimes appeared in his own cheek. "And I. But ah, Fearless Leader, if it were only so easy's that."

His hand tensed, and he frowned at first, then released it in understanding as he turned to nod his agreement at the ruins. "Yeah. I have a feeling that this is going to take a bit more than a dream."

Seamus grimaced, planting one boot on the she-wolf's haunches to withdraw his arrow, inspecting the bloody shaft closely before dropping it back among the others. "Me, now, I'd call it a nightmare."

"First things first," Neville sighed, "do you have any more idea than I do what's happened here?"

"Not nothin' sure, no," Seamus confessed. "But looks to me like they weren't quite right 'bout all the dark forces bein' gone from this side, and I'd say they paid dear for that mistake."

"Or maybe he's gotten stronger." He ran his hand over Ascalon's hilt, considering their situation. "The question is, then, do you think we should go through with the Quest on our own, or do we try to do something now?"

Seamus chuckled only half in amusement, shaking his head. "No offense, Fearless Leader, but England's Sword or no, I don't see the two o' us stoppin' him alone, and that's as good as I know  _I've_ gotten."

"I'll certainly vouch that you're a hell of a shot," Neville agreed, returning the dark smile. "And I'm not half bad myself, even if I'm better with the bladed weapons than the bow. But you're right, we need the Faye if we're going to have any chance at all, and that means the Quest." He gestured towards the half-splintered door behind them. "I've got Phoenix waiting out there, along with everything Sir Kaye said I'd need. You?"

"Phoenix?" One fair eyebrow rose questioningly, and Neville laughed.

"My destrier - my horse, I mean. He's about the size of a small dragon, actually, but he's great, and he's bred and trained for battle."

"Fine name, that. Got one o' me own, though ain't nowhere near the size o' no dragon, but better most likely for't.  _Capall_."

Now it was Neville's turn to give his friend an inquisitive look. "What does that mean, or is it just a name?"

"Oh, I weren't half so imaginative as ya," his smile widened, and he shrugged lightly, the arrows rattling on his back. "Means 'horse,' is all."

He nodded, carefully maintaining a straight face. "Direct, to the point, makes sense, and I don't suppose it matters that much to the horse. So, we set out at once, then? I don't want to stick around to see if the rest of the pack is all that close by."

"We'll take the south road," Seamus agreed, slinging the bow behind his back and reaching behind to quickly tighten the cords that lashed it in place on the side of the quiver. "For the Sword o' Findias at least, Cuchulainn thought were best to start at Gorias, where she were forged."

"That's more specific than anything I have. Kaye didn't know anything about the Horn of --"

He stopped, the words dying mid-sentence and mid-stride as a sudden, freezing wind swept down on them from out of nowhere. It whipped the dust and tiny chips of stone into a ferociously stinging whirlwind, and he ducked his head, bringing his shield up to guard his face as he squeezed his eyes tightly shut, holding his breath to keep from clotting his lungs with the abrupt storm, even as his mind raced to imagine every wild possibility that could have brought it screaming into the hall. His shield was ringing with the harsh tattoo, he could feel it rattling against the mail and plate, and he was struck with a sudden worry for Seamus, so much more exposed in his lighter armor.

Gritting his teeth, he forced his eyes open a fraction, and he could barely make out the other man through the blinding swirl, kneeling low with his own shield likewise over his head, but his tunic and leggings were torn in a dozen places, and already blood was appearing from the thorn-like cuts and scratches between the leather armor. Quickly, he crossed the two paces between them and knelt, pulling up the hood of his mailshirt for his own protection as he turned the larger, longer shield to protect his friend.

Seamus looked up, surprise and gratitude both evident in his expression, but there was no time for thanks, because the storm was over as quickly as it had begun, and they both looked on in amazement as before their eyes, the tears in the fabric and flesh alike knit together, restoring every bit of damage the flying shrapnel had wrought before they even had the chance to get to their feet. And that was not all that had been restored.

There was not only no trace of the devastation that had first greeted them, but the hall of the Morrigan was grander now, more glorious than it had ever been, so magnificent as to boggle the mind and humble the spirit in the face of such unabashedly divine spectacle. A latticework of dizzyingly complex gold was embedded into the floor with not even a hairline crack to the glassine surface, the tapestries were incorporated with precious metals and jewels the size of a man's fist, a hundred thousand candles suspended in mid-air from vast cornices, and the throne was draped in ebony silk, carved from a single piece of jet in such detail that the raven seemed on the verge of flight, every groove and shaft of the feathers executed in immortal perfection.

The Morrigan herself was seated there, and like her hall, she had also changed. Though tall before, now she had to be no less than seven feet, perhaps more, and her body itself was more abundant, every curve now extravagant almost to the point of becoming a parody of womanhood, her lips lush and blood-red, her hair literally glowing like a bed of embers. Her armor was no longer bronze, but gold, and the chasings were so lovely that one could almost ignore that they were rendered in images of horrible death in battle, and her voice was husky, even slightly slurred as if drunk on her own power and majesty as she stood to greet them. "Your time was not spent in vain, Son o' York, Son o' Ulster. Approach me now and kneel."

There was no question but to obey, and they both moved at once, as if they had practiced for hours to match their paces along the long aisle, to kneel in perfect unison beneath the Goddess's magnetic gaze, heads low, both swords drawn and presented across open palms in fealty. She stepped down from the dais and circled them slowly, her soft-booted feet soundless, even the sweep of her robes unrustling as she spoke. "Your masters have given fine testimony to your dedication, your skill at arms, your humility and willingness to put yourselves beneath their tutelage, but we wished to see for ourselves if ya were ready."

"There is more to bein' worthy o' the Quest than mere martial ability, but ya did not give up when ya thought yourselves abandoned and all lost, ya showed still able to think for yourselves as well as obey the orders o' your betters, and more important still, ya moved beyond your own past petty troubles and gave forgiveness, even acted to protect one another when there was no need for your own benefit. In this, more than anythin' else, ya have shown yourselves stronger than ya were when last ya knelt at our feet. Stronger, and ready at last to claim your reward and begin your Quest."

She stopped now, and he felt her eyes searching over him, heart and body alike. "Have ya anything to ask or say before ya begin?"

Neville licked his lips, hesitant to ask the question that had been wearing at him for years, but knowing at the same time that it was useless to attempt to conceal it. "My Lady, what has happened while we were training? In the mortal world...our world? Was what Hermione did enough to really halt him and it's just up to us to push his creatures back through into the Oweynagat, or is there more?"

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the sandy head rise, and Seamus spoke before she could reply. "He is stronger, isn't he? That's why this place - why ya yourself - 'so much grander now, ain't it? You're made o' the beliefs o' the many, and there's more believin' in ya now, aren't there, which means they've reason to be thinkin' o' the old ways."

"Wise ya are, Seamus o' Ulster," she nodded with a slight, gracious smile. "Indeed stronger he is, though the maiden's sacrifice was not in vain. Were he to have fulfilled his wish with her, he'd have both the forces o' death and o' creation at his hand, and true he'd have joined the immortals and become unstoppable. As 'tis he has naught but pure darkness that he may command, but strong enough that is to do great and terrible things. In answer your question, Neville o' York, seventeen years have passed to the world o' men, and a cruel night has fallen o'er all Ireland in that time."

"Seventeen years!" He wasn't able to stop the outburst, but he scarcely cared as he stared up at her in disbelief.  _Seventeen years!_ He had been prepared for no time at all, even for the full ten years, but this...it stunned him to think how much time that really was, that little Cecily must now be older than some of his friends and fellow soldiers who had fallen at Druim Cett, that Gran must surely be dead if not almost a hundred years old, that everyone he had known as a boy would be well into middle-age or more, and the amount of damage a tyrant of such power as the Diabhal Dubh could wreak in that much time....

"If it is your wish," the Morrigan offered smoothly, "I would allow ya to return to that world for a single day, to see what it is ya will be Questin' for firsthand, to make your decision in full knowledge o' what ya will stand against if ya indeed wish to command the Faye."

He exchanged a brief glance with his fellow wizard, but it was barely necessary as Seamus nodded fiercely. "Aye,  _Bandia,_ I'm wantin' to, and I think Fearless Leader, too." There was a moment's hesitation, a frown. "But whatever he's done, won't it be fair worse by the time we've finished the Quest?"

"No more time shall pass for the world o' men between this moment and the fulfillment o' your task, if truly it is done, though if ya fail, all the time that would have passed and more shall fall uninterrupted." Her white, graceful hand reached down and barely brushed the outstretched dragon's wings of Ascalon, and he gasped as a frigid shiver shot through the sword to seize him, and he knew something had happened, something had changed, even if he didn't know what. The Morrigan had already moved on, doing what was by his reaction the exact same thing to Seamus as well, then she resumed her throne, and there was the now-familiar shiver and twist as Badb separated from her.

Like her unified sister-aspect, Badb had become more as well, but hers was a fragile and haunted glory, much the feel of an abandoned temple long overgrown, her gray robes at once more opulent and more ragged, her hair longer and yet more wild and matted as it hung over her beautiful, shadowed face. Her thin hands spread towards the ceiling, and she raised eyes that were still white, but now held the shimmering iridescence of twin pearls.

" _Their eyes are blind to those once dear_  
No ties true bind the long-past year  
The touch of hand the spoken word  
Pass unfelt and yet unheard  
One day one night to make the choice  
To quest for right or reclaim voice  
Rejoin the lost and count as men  
Or claim the cost and fight again."

The candles guttered a moment in a shallow breeze as the doors behind them flew open with a loud bang, and the Morrigan waved one hand archly, her expression almost seeming as if she had grown bored with it all. "Take your day, but remember, ya walk as shades, and if ya truly attempt to make yourselves seen or heard, or to interfere with anything that ya may see, the choice will have been made to take that action o'er the risk o' the Quest, and ya will become flesh and blood again, but also sealed from the Oweynagat for evermore."

OOO

He should have been cold, should have been wishing desperately for the heavy bearskin cloak he knew would have been packed for the Quest, but the snow swirled not merely around them, but through their bodies in uninterrupted eddies, the bitter wind forming it into ash-stained drifts on the frozen streets. Neville didn't need to squint his eyes against what he could see but not feel as he turned slowly, struggling to take in the bizarre conflict that had met them when they left the extravagant hall of the triune Goddess.

It was a modern city, or perhaps it once had been, but it looked as though it had been completely abandoned before being reclaimed by some tribe of ancient bronze-age barbarians. The shells of automobiles, gutted utterly of anything that could be pried, torn, or carried away stood like naked bones here and there on the pitted asphalt, the windows were almost all broken, a few crudely re-covered with wooden shutters or ragged cloth, and hut-like shelters had been erected in every alley out of pieces of billboards and torn-down bus shelters mixed in with things that should have been indoors; tattered sofas and scratched dining-room tables, wardrobes and even what looked like a refrigerator door.

Everything was half-drowned by the same ugly gray slush that came to his ankles, mud and snow mixed with the ash that rained down among the whiter flakes from uncountable small fires, and black ice would have made mortal footing treacherous at best while more ice hung like jagged teeth from every eave and empty branch. It wasn't just winter when they had left at the height of spring, it was a desolation deeper than the seasons, and Neville felt a queasiness from somewhere deeper than his body, from the core of his magic itself, a lonely, tearing hopelessness, and he  _knew_  what it was as he turned to face his companion.

"Nothing's  _growing_ , Seamus. It's not dormant, either…this isn't normal winter. The grass, the trees, everything…" his words tumbled over each other in a desperation that was barely his, and it was all he could do not to give voice to the faint, collective sob that had seized his heart. "It's crushed, it's dead or almost dead, and it can't bloom, it can't grow, it can't  _live."_

"Something's alive out there," Seamus pointed grimly to one of the nearer huts, "if ya can call it that."

It was a young woman, a cloak made from a floral duvet wrapped tightly around her shoulders as she struggled with a tiny silver object over a Muggle telephone directory that had been torn apart and heaped in a charred rubbish bin. Her face was desperately thin, her lips cracked and raw meat, and she kept looking up and around like a hunted animal, her narrow shoulders shaking with what was obviously fear as much as cold.

The source of that fear was clear all too quickly. No sooner had the first tiny flame from the silver object caught the pages, but there was a roar, a twist in the wind, and Neville recoiled involuntarily as two of the emaciated beasts from Druim Cett appeared on either side of a man in the white cloak and silver mask of the Diabhal Dubh's own elite. The girl screamed, but her voice was carried away uselessly in the howl of the wind, and it was all he could do, with Ascalon so keen and ready by his side, to hold himself back from running to her aid.

The wizard reached out a hand, the object flew from her grip, crumbled to dust, and his voice was undampered by the gale as he sprinkled it across the muck. "The faithless are not allowed the gift of fire, creature, have ya forgotten?"

"I'm sorry," she was on her knees, the duvet fallen from her shoulders to reveal the strangest assortment of layered Muggle clothing he had ever seen, everything from a sports jersey to some kind of lacy camisole piled atop a body so thin that the cords of her neck stood out in terrible clarity. "Please, we've tried to pledge the faith, we have, we just –"

"Your sacrifice wasn't enough," he waved his hand towards the two beasts, and she screamed again as they started forward, throwing herself back against the wall as if she could melt into it and escape.

"We don't  _have_ anything else! Jesus, we gave ya me broth –" A bolt of energy from his hand struck her hard in the stomach, and she collapsed to the ground, gasping for air like a landed fish as she writhed in obvious agony. "I'm sorry! Sorry!"

"Punish it." The order was offhanded, tossed over one shoulder to his demonic entourage as the wizard himself had already turned to go, but Neville couldn't watch what happened next. He knew that he wouldn't be able to keep from intervening, that the stakes were too high, and he spun away, covering his ears so that he wouldn't have to hear, wouldn't have to know for sure what imagination already made too vivid.

Seamus wasn't watching either, but oddly, though he had expected he might need to restrain the former vigilante with physical force, he didn't seem to be paying the slightest attention to her plight. Instead, his gaze was fixed above them, and Neville's eyes followed upwards to what seemed like just another ruined high-rise standing in perilous disrepair over the surrounding red brick. "Churchill House," he murmured so low that Neville didn't even know if he was meant to hear, but then the blue eyes turned to him with a look both resigned and sickened. "We're back in Belfast, we are. 'Tis the goddamned city center."

There was another scream, an awful, wet thud, and he forced his attention to the buildings, only the buildings, trying only half-successfully to match them to anything even vaguely remembered from his own eventful time there. Finally, he conceded it as useless, shaking his head. "I'll have to take your word for it. Just looks like a war zone to me."

"Ain't your home town, now is it?" The rebuke was delivered with unexpected gentleness, but the anger was merely reserved for another target, and the freckled hands balled tightly into fists as he approached a scrawl of bloody graffiti along a nearby wall. "D'ya suppose spittin' on this shite would count as interferin'?"

The words were in what he could only assume was Gaelic, and he tucked his arms around himself, shivering despite their imperviousness to the exterior cold. "What does it say?"

" _Faireann siad. Feiceann siad. Bhionn cuis ann chun a cheapadh gur baolach."_  Seamus read aloud, his voice hollow. "They watch. They see. You have every reason to fear."

"Really inspiring," Neville said dryly. "I've got a feeling that wasn't put up by the resistance."

"I've got a worse feelin' there ain't one, Fearless Leader," came the cool reply. "If he's comin' down that quick and hard on an unauthorized fire by some poor girl tryin' not t'freeze to death, I don't see no D.A. gettin' away with much, or if they did, I'd wager it were over long ago. And I ain't sayin' that as a people what give up easy, neither."

"Considering that I know personally that there are still quite a few of you disputing the English conquest of 1171, that's quite a statement." He looked again at the ominous words, then out across the barren square, noticing for the first time the round, dark patches patterned across the open space. "Do you think those are –"

"Burnin's, aye. This were the city center, like's I said. What they did to Ron…aye, Fearless Leader, ya want your resistance, I think you'll find the leaders – or fair least some o' their ashes – there. And I ain't said what I did flip, but if this ain't a case o' bein' careful what ya wish for, I couldn't tell ya. The matter o' Home Rule would at least seem be solved, but I doubt Papist or Proddy's likin' how it came out."

Silence lingered for a few more seconds, neither wanting to turn and see what had happened to the miserable girl, nor if her tormenters were still around, but just staying in this godforsaken square was equally intolerable, and Neville jerked his head towards the widest street, pulling at Seamus' sleeve to try and snap him out of his blazing-eyed contemplation of the charred stains. "Come on, we've got to find out what's going on here."

"What's goin' on," Seamus snapped, "is a bloody reign o' terror make Riddle look like a feckin' nursemaid! Or can't ya see that ready enough?"

"Of course I can, but if we're going to mount a counter-attack, we need more than 'things are bad.' Look –" He slung his shield over his back, freeing his hands to tick things off on his fingers, and he was grateful for the faithful distraction that the simple responsibility of leadership had so often provided him. "We need to know if there is  _any_ resistance, and if not, how long ago and how bloodily it was crushed. We need to know the rules of this regime, what they meant by 'swearing the faith,' and 'sacrifices.' We need to know how bad things are, how beaten down the people are, how many are collaborating, what's happened to the dark creatures, how much he's really able to watch, what kind of numbers, where his strongholds are, where he has his center or capital or temple or whatever it is, what's going on with the land and the weather, how the outside world has handled this –"

"Hold up there!" Seamus held up his hands in mock-surrender. "Shite, ya sound like Boot, ya do. This ain't Hogwarts again!"

"I sound like him for a reason," Neville protested. "He and Mike and Luna studied pretty much every resistance movement – magical and Muggle – they could find to teach me the bare bones of what the Commander of a rebellion needed to know. That was back before you were a proper officer, when it was still Ginny for Gryffindor, but the principles still hold, and if we're going to break this son of a bitch, we have to keep ourselves tight on the spell. One day isn't much to gather everything we need to know, especially since we can't interact."

To his surprise, Seamus didn't argue, merely nodded thoughtfully, fingers tugging at the cords on the end of his braid as he paced a self-proscribed path of five steps, a half-turn, and back again. "'Tis my city," he said finally, "and a bugger she is for gettin' ya lost, particularly if you'll forgive me for assumin' your fine sense o' direction ain't taken no drastic turn for the better o'er the years."

For the first time since passing into this twisted version of their old world, Neville smiled. "I got lost in Caer Gai barely a couple of days before I was summoned back."

"Don't need to know where that is t'have me answer, then." The smile was thinly returned, then Seamus went back to pacing, not caring that he'd pulled the end of the braid loose by now and was making significant progress on yanking the cord completely from the rest of it. "So I'll take Belfast herself. I know where to look, I know what I'll be seein' and what I won't, and I'll get ya everythin' you're wantin' and anythin' else I can."

"All right," he agreed carefully. "What about me?"

The blue eyes looked up, and there was a hesitation there, even a regret that made him suddenly very nervous indeed. "Ya can feel the dyin' things, can ya? The land herself?"

The reminder cracked the surface of the steady tactical assessments, and he swallowed hard, fighting past the resurgence of that ravaged, innocent despair. "I can."

"Then follow it. I'll find what's happened to me own people, and you listen to the tears o' Eire herself and follow them to the bastard who's been rapin' her all this time." His hair was almost completely loose now, and he shook it back carelessly as he reached for the complicated straps across his chest, unbuckling the quiver and letting it drop to the ground, then going next to the clasp of his carriage.

Neville frowned quizzically, bending to pick up the discarded weapons and hold them out again. "I have my own, Seamus, why are you --?"

"Because –" the sword and shield fell next, then he plucked the old wolf-headed knife from his boot, not dropping it, but setting it carefully atop the others. "Me temper's long been me downfall, and I'll at least be settin' some pause to meself if I'm goin' to where I know I'll be sore tempted to interfere. If we're shades unseen, then this should all be here fine enough when I get back."

There was a blunt but casual self-awareness to the rationale, and Neville felt one eyebrow raise, a little startled but impressed nonetheless by this change. "I was going to ask if you were sure you could keep your head with everything you might see," he admitted, then lowered the quiver to sit on top of the other discarded things with a look of genuine respect towards his friend. "I guess I underestimated you, and I'm sorry."

"No, Fearless Leader, ya just know me and well," Seamus reached out, squeezing his arm with the familiar half-smile. "Not offended at all, I ain't, but I've had a long time to think, and I ain't wantin' vengeance on the Diabhal Dubh no more."

If Seamus had announced a desire to go back in time and make friends with the Carrow siblings, it could hardly have been more unexpected, and Neville stiffened beneath the other man's hand. " _What?"_

"Oh, no. I want nothin' less than what he near took from me, what he's takin' from me people, and what he's sucked from me homeland." The smile widened, and he saw again a glimpse of the feral rage that had almost seemed healed. "I want his  _soul_ , and ain't nothin' worth forgettin' that."


	21. Angels Fear to Tread

Neville waited until Seamus was completely out of sight, watching him fade into the drifting snow and watching the empty street for several seconds after before he finally sank down, sitting on his heels with his head in his hands as he fought to keep from trembling with raw trepidation. He had agreed, he had all but promised, he knew it needed to be done and why, but oh, he didn't  _want_  to. His hands rubbed together, slid through his hair, he licked his lips, and he knew he was stalling, but it couldn't really be helped. "This is gonna be such a splinch."

It would have been easier if it was a matter of opening himself to hearing the sufferings of someone or something that was fully conscious; there would be words, distinct feelings and experiences he could distance himself from, but this was different. It was the very thing he loved so much about being a gardener – a greenhouse or yard filled with lush, well cared-for plants brought a contentment, a sense of well-being so basal that it couldn't be separated from his own heart's happiness, and even through the distance of whatever magic the Morrigan had used on them, the ache of this land was so wrenching and overpowering that he was terrified he would lose himself in its misery.

His nervous fingers found the Galleon in his pouch, and he pulled it out, clutching it tight in his fist as he bowed his head.  _Faith._ "I know I have to do this," he whispered. "Please, ground me, keep me myself, let me hang on to you while I descend into wherever this will lead, into whatever darkness I'm going to face.  _Please_ , wherever you are, I know you haven't abandoned me any more than I've forgotten you. I put myself in your hands now. Give me an anchor. Give me strength. Keep me sane." It was so faint it might have been imagined, but the small golden disc seemed to heat in response, an echo of the old signal flare, and he swallowed hard, slipping it back into the pouch.

"All right then, I'm trusting you." And he did, he had to, because now he stood, stripping off his gloves and spreading his open palms to the sky as he closed his eyes, head tilted back to breathe in deep of the crying wind. Neville allowed his mind to fall blank, his senses to float free of his body, and even as every rational instinct screamed against it, he forced himself to abandon all control of his magic, his heart, to open himself utterly to just  _feel_.

It was the sound of a woman dying in childbirth, the unvoiced cries of the unborn, the beyond innocent incapable of understanding the cause or nature of their agony. It was the desperate struggle of life attempting to break the chokehold of death but unable to gather breath to save itself, and it was incapable of the dark refuge of rage or hate, left with nothing but  _no_ and  _why_ and  _please, oh, please_  and pain. So much pain.

He wanted to sooth it, heal it, nourish it, anything to break the despair and the helplessness, but the Galleon wasn't just warm now, it was searing his waist through cloth and mail with blistering intensity, that tiny spark of his own very real pain connecting him barely enough to keep the overwhelming urge at bay. It was deafening, overwhelming, it made the blood ache in his veins and his skin seem to shrink and shrivel, the taste of ash bitter-sharp on his tongue, but he didn't, he couldn't let go.

Like following the trail of blood to a murdered child, he had to drive ever deeper into the broken heart of the island to seek out the source of her pain, and he gathered himself as best he could. This time it wasn't just opening, it was pushing, thrusting towards the worst of it, harsh hands probing the throbbing wound. He had to rely utterly on faith now, trust that those he loved would keep whatever they had to of him safe from this, because he could no longer feel the Galleon, could no longer feel himself at all. He was gorse cracking brittle dead branches into the wind, he was birch poisoned on blood that ran in a once-pure stream, he was clover finding no succor at the dry teat of once-fertile soil, he was the frost-bitten rose and the blasted ivy, the lightning-struck oak and the barren apple, the blighted field and buried verge, and he longed beyond reason just to grow, to live, to  _be_  but the sun was too thin the air too cold the soil devoid of food and the rain hot venom upon his leaves and it hurt, it hurt too much to bear, to even keep trying, and he was dying, leaf by bud by blade just  _dying_ and there was nothing to be done nothing nothing nothing at all….

_Where is he? Where is the one who's done this to you?_

The answer came in a unified wail of accusation that was the closest thing yet to rage, and he reached for it with the last scrap of his mind that wasn't brown and withered and snapping before the gale.

_There._

There was no sensation of travel, he was simply everywhere and then he was in one place, and it wasn't the place he had been when he started. He was sweating, shaking, completely disoriented by the simple reality of his own skin, but the hands whose fingers responded uncertainly to his commands were meat and sinew, not wood and sap, and he was  _human._ Never, even with the keen of nature's desolation still ringing in his heart, had that been so alien or so beautiful.

The Galleon was still making its presence known, no longer painful, just comfortingly warm, and he stroked it gently, his voice rough and strange, but the emotion still clear. " _Thank you."_

Taking a deep breath, he got to his feet (when had he fallen to his knees? He didn't know. It didn't matter) and looked around, making himself shut out the lingering sorrow in place of the colder awareness he knew he needed now in what had to be his enemy's seat of power. It wasn't Belfast, nor any other city, that much was certain.

This was somewhere older, a ruined castle from the looks of things, recently but imperfectly restored. A huge fire blazed in the ancient hearth, spitting sparks and embers across the stone floor dangerously close to the rich carpets that had been laid heavily against the encroaching chill. The iron lattice and lead glass of the windows had been replaced behind thick, emerald curtains, torches added their own molten light from elaborately wrought dragon's head brackets on the walls, and the whole room seemed the appropriate lair of a medieval warlord more than any modern tyrant.

A high-backed wooden chair stood just out of reach of the fire's expulsions, but even though it was facing away from him, Neville felt something sick slither through his stomach as he knew before looking what monster was seated there. A white-robed acolyte was kneeling at the unseen man's feet, his face unmasked, and a hiss of rage sucked through his teeth as he recognized the face, older now, but still not unfamiliar from the wanted posters that had filled the Auror Department in the aftermath of Riddle's defeat. Geoffrey Shaw. He had been one of Riddle's top men in Ireland, a collaborator highly placed in the Republic's Ministry, and now he gazed syncophantically at his new master, all but slavering in eagerness.

"They're  _perfect,_ Thiarna. We couldn't ask for better, and in the seventeenth year o' your power…there is no more auspicious year. One might almost be grateful that the last time was thwarted."

" _Oinseach!_  If there hadn't been failure with the girl, it would already be ours. As it is, we're lucky, nothing more, that all the world's efforts have been on keepin' me contained rather than fools likes o' them out. There'll be no mistake with the drug this time." The sound of the hated, familiar voice made the fire seem to flare before vision suddenly skewed in rage, and Neville closed his eyes, because there had been a shift in the shadows, the Diabhal Dubh was standing, and he knew that seeing that face again might be too much. He couldn't lose it now. What they were saying was too obviously important, their timing had too clearly been no coincidence, and he had to pay attention.

"None, Thiarna, we've already tested it. The girl will do your every bidding."

"And this one, she's a true virgin, ya say?"

The lascivious edge to Shaw's voice was disgusting, but he answered almost instantly. "Oh, without a doubt, I've made  _personally_ certain o' it. A virgin maid, on the very cusp o' womanhood, flesh and blood o' one who tried to stand in your way, seekin' herself to destroy ya, captured along with her brother, himself unwed, both o' pure magical descent, come here o' free will and knowin' what ya are…the Smith children are more powerful magic than the first two ever could have been."

The name struck like a blow, and his eyes flew open again, shock rendering reserve no longer necessary. It couldn't…it wasn't exactly an uncommon surname, for Merlin's sake! But if the girl was on the cusp of womanhood, that would make her sixteen or seventeen, and Zach's youngest, the daughter who still hadn't been born when her father was killed…and he and Meg were both Purebloods, the two oldest were both boys, and was it so hard to believe they would want vengeance on their father's murderer enough to seek it after seventeen years?

The Diabhal Dubh was pacing thoughtfully now, and as he turned, Neville was oddly not entirely surprised to see that he didn't seem to have aged either, that if anything, he looked younger than when he had first seen him in the shadows of Seamus' sparsely furnished flat. The thin lips smiled, but it was not the overconfident enthusiasm of his underling, but a more guarded pleasure that was far more dangerous. "Prepare Druim Cett to receive as many as ya can manage by whatever means. No call t'be deprivin' the people o' the grandest Beltaine they'll ever have hope o' seein.'"

Shaw bowed low, but it earned him only a harsh strike across the side of the head, the heavy silver rings on the Diabhal Dubh's hand painfully loud against his skull. "And the army 's well. No chances, and this time, if there's more foolishness, I don't want them disturbin' things, nor any  _feckin' survivors!"_ The anger was abrupt and astonishing in its intensity, his regal face distorted and almost purple with fury. "The only reason any o' ya curs still suck air through your disgustin' faces is that those two did your jobs for ya and burned themselves, but if anythin',  _anythin'_ goes even the slightest off o' plan tomorrow, you'll be beggin' to be sacrificed so sweet and easy's Smith's bastards!"

"O'course, Thiarna!" Shaw yelped. "Every detail! Nothin' left to chance, I swear!"

There was a moment where it looked as though the Diabhal Dubh might still tear the other man's head from his shoulders on mere principle, but then the rage passed, and he nodded quite reasonably, sitting down again, feet extended casually towards the fire. "Tell me these flawless plans o' yours, then, and I'll tell ya where they're completely bollocks, and then…" his fingers drummed a moment on the arm of the chair, and he closed his eyes languidly. "Dinner, yes. Pork tonight, I think, that loin with the honey and pepper and the peach brandy. And the girl – Morgan?"

"Morag, Thiarna."

"Is she beautiful?"

Shaw hesitated, then seemed to decide that carefully phrased honesty was his best chance at maintaining his master's currently nonviolent mood. "Not strikingly so, Thiarna, but she has some o' the loveliest skin I've ever seen, a certain wholesome kind o' prettiness to the face, and her body's good enough, if a bit gangly. Coltish, ya could call it."

The Diabhal Dubh considered this a moment, then nodded again. "That can be charmin' enough in a young one, and the dear thing does deserve t'know a bit o' the pleasures o' the flesh before the unpleasantness tomorrow, even if we've need keep her a virgin in the one. But another for after. Not 'coltish', neither."

"As ya will, Thiarna. And as for tomorrow; we've already begun assemblin' the bonfire, it will be…."

The plans went on for over an hour, meticulous and complete as Shaw had promised, and through it all, Neville listened. Sometimes he cursed himself for not carrying a quill, afraid to trust so much to the memory for details that had never been his greatest asset, but even if he only recalled half of it, he knew it would be plenty to deal with. Occasionally, he wondered if Seamus had met with as much success, but that hardly mattered either. He finally understood why now, why they had been sent to this year, this day, and why this entire reality would suspend between breaths for the outcome of the Quest.

Because when this was over, it was their enemy's second chance every bit as much as it was theirs, and they were not the only ones who had learned from their mistakes.

OOO

"I see ya managed not to feck things up and get yourself banned, then." Seamus stepped out of the tunnel that lead beneath the knoll to the hall of the Morrigan, and Neville smiled thinly in response to the greeting, tugging lightly at the reins to turn Phoenix to face him.

"It wasn't easy. I actually couldn't stay the full time, but I'll tell you once we're on our way." He jerked his head towards the roan hobbled a few paces away, like his own mount already laden and saddled. "I wanted to have Capall ready for you, but I don't think he likes me."

"Just don't know what you're sayin', is all." He watched in wry amusement as Seamus crossed matter-of-factly to the animal who had only a few hours ago attempted to bite Neville's hand off for daring to approach and now glared at him, pinning its ears as if aware he had been maligned. " _Ah, bi ciuin_!" Seamus admonished, and to Neville's surprise, Capall settled instantly, nuzzling his master as gently as a lamb. " _Neville cara duinn_."

"I hope that means I'm not made of oats," Neville commented dryly. "That seemed to be something that got lost in the translation."

"Means you're me friend…that ya ain't lunch fair follows."

He waited as Seamus rolled and tied the hobble, then sprang up onto Capall's back so easily that Neville shook his head in amazement. "I can't believe you can do that without stirrups…I really thought you had some in your pack roll or something."

"I ain't wearin' me own weight o'er again in steel, nor'm I tryin' to get meself up on no walkin' battlement, neither." A shrewd gleam came into the blue eyes as they turned towards the south road, the two mounts assessing each other as obviously as their riders. "So, ya duckin' talkin' 'bout what ya saw too, then?"

The bluntness took him aback a moment, then he shrugged. "I guess I am."

"Well enough. We've this whole thing t'go there, and I don't know 'bout ya, but after ten bloody years, feels feckin' good be on our way at last." The smile grew into a remarkably boyish and carefree grin, and he dropped the reins, spreading his arms and tipping his face up to the bright morning sunlight as he arched so far back that it was a marvel he managed to remain steady on the saddle that was barely more than a thick blanket.

Neville laughed, unclasping his cloak and letting it fall behind him onto his own sturdy, high-treed saddle. "It does! I almost wish I could just take my shirt off and enjoy the weather, but I've got a feeling that wouldn't be exactly wise."

"Or easy!" Seamus pointed out. "It's a miracle ya can move, and I don't half know how there ever managed to be little knights what with all that muck ya got! Do ya need a can opener t'take a piss, mate?"

"Not hardly!" His own smile widened wickedly, and he rose in the stirrups, gathering the slack from his reins. "I can move just fine, Finnigan! Faster than you're ready for on that dainty little foal!" Before the challenge was even fully out of his mouth, he'd prodded Phoenix hard with his spurs, and they were all but flying down the hard-packed dirt road, scarlet and blue trappings fluttering as the huge hooves devoured the ground with every stride.

There was a brief cry of protest from behind him, but Neville didn't look back, leaning low and forward in the posture used for the serious battle-charge and the almost as serious joust alike, using his own strength to balance the weight of rider and armor over the destrier's powerful shoulders. He was well in the lead, and there seemed no way that the far smaller Capall could possibly catch up, but a flash of sunlit copper caught the corner of his eye, and he laughed incredulously as he saw the little roan beginning not just to catch them, but drawing even alongside.

Seamus twisted, glaring up at him fiercely, but his eyes were dancing as he flicked his thumb across his lips in an unfamiliar but unmistakable gesture. " _Pog mo thoin_!"

"Same to you!" He gave another jab with his spurs, running a quick hand along Phoenix's neck as he urged him on. "Come now, shalt thou be so easy beaten by that stripling? Haste! Haste!"

As if in answer, Phoenix snorted, then lowered his head, gathering himself in another burst of speed that brought them into the lead again, but it was a brief victory. He heard Seamus' shouted Gaelic extolling his own mount, and the two horses were so close that they could have been harnessed together, neither managing to stay ahead for more than a few paces as the pastoral beauty of the Oweynagat sailed past them in a blur of verdant color.

He had no idea how long the wild race went on, but when they were at last brought up short as the road ended at the banks of a broad, gleaming river, both horses and men were breathing like bellows and lathered in sweat, and although his legs were shaking harder than he had expected as he slid to the ground, he was laughing through the gasps for air. "Let them…let them rest a little…before we find…a ford?"

"I'm for that," Seamus agreed, his own gait not entirely steady as he lead Capall a few paces to the water's edge. "And I'm not above sharin' a bit o' cool water with them, neither."

"Sounds brilliant." He allowed Phoenix to begin drinking first, then knelt, reaching up to unbuckle his pauldron and using the scooped shoulder-piece as a cup before offering it to the other man, who was using his hands to gather the cold, clear water, but accepted the more efficient alternative gratefully. Seamus drank and re-filled it twice, then tipped a third cup over his head, sighing as it ran down his face and neck beneath the leather carapace.

"Oh, feels grand, that." He glanced back at Neville, holding out the pauldron. "Go on, ya must be roastin'."

"I am," he admitted, taking it back and dipping several scoops over his own head and shoulders. "Much better." He pushed away the strands of hair that had clung to his face, then leaned back on the grass, bracing himself on his elbows as he stared up at the endless blue sky above them. "You know, I've heard of running from an issue before, but I think we may have taken it a bit literally."

There was almost a minute's silence, then Seamus' voice lilted across the faint rustle of the breeze in the tall grass and the soft sounds of the horses settling themselves to graze. "I've seen some terrible things in me life, I have, but I don't think there's anythin' can ready a man for seein' his home so hard used."

"I can't imagine if that had been Willow Creek, or anywhere in Yorkshire, or even England, for that matter," he agreed solemnly. "Were things that bad all over, then?"

"Can't say all over," Seamus allowed, "but Belfast…." He shook his head sorrowfully. "And to hear folk talk, it's same enough o'er the rest o' the island. Seems it weren't too long after we left, neither. He hit Ulster first, sure's he did, but he didn't stop at the border, and weren't nothin' could stand 'gainst. Statute be damned, wizards were fightin' his lot open in the streets, but we know well enough how far that'll get ya, and the Muggle military and police just never knew what hit them. Weren't no man jack o' them trained or ready t'meet the damned."

Neville let out a deep breath, trying not to imagine the sheer panic such an invasion must have brought on a completely unprepared populace. "At least it was quick."

"Don't mean it weren't bloody, though." Seamus made a face, an unreadable cross between horrified distaste and what seemed nearly like pride. "Folk  _did_  fight at first, but there weren't no mercy, and how d'ya guard when the birds and the unseen spirits are his eyes and ears? There were 'sacrifices' every day for a while, then most just tucked down for no hope o' tryin' or were already dead. Held steady for a while, just another damned tyrant, much as I hate t'make it sound a small thing, then the Gorta began."

He looked over now, tilting his head curiously, unsure whether Seamus even realized he'd used the foreign word. "Gorta? Is that some kind of program, like Grindlewald's Allgemeinwohl or the MBRC?"

"'Tis a hunger, a famine, a dyin' o' the land," came the dark reply. "He'd already outlawed our kind o' magic 'long with all Muggle technology, destroyed the power plants, the wireless networks, everythin' he could to stop people communicatin' with each other or bein' 'distracted.' If folk what raised with iceboxes and automobiles suddenly have to start farmin' and foragin', ain't much time for no rebellion, and the rest o' the world didn't make it no better, not that I can put blame there. Cut us off hard."

Neville nodded quickly. "The Diabhal Dubh himself mentioned something like that…that they were trying to contain him."

"Some think it's a kind o' plague, that the whole island's gone barkin', others more willin' to believe what it true is, but end o' the day what it comes to is that half the world's navies got us feckin' surrounded, and word has that even a bird what tries to leave Ireland's shores won't make it a hundred yards out to sea alive." He shivered, and there was no need to ask what brought the haunted shadows to his eyes. "So when the winters started gettin' longer, the crops thinner, then things wouldn't grow at all…."

"There's famine," Neville said quietly. "Like before, with the potatoes."

"Hmmph," Seamus gave a derisive snort, tearing at a patch of grass and flinging it towards the water's edge. "That'd be  _welcomed_ by now. Tears o' joy and dancin' in the streets, there'd be. Ain't  _nothin'_ growin, as ya well know, and the freeze ain't even broken one day in four years. Creation itself's given up…ain't even been  _rumor_  o' a woman havin' a baby in near most a decade, and meanwhile, give ya one guess who's got all the food and firewood. Dolin' it out bits and drabs in return for 'sacrifices', which can be anythin' from land to gold to blood to a daughter he rather fancies."

"But that's –" he sat up now, rubbing one hand thoughtfully over his beard as he matched what Seamus had seen against his own observations. "No, that makes sense. And that's why…of course. He knows it too, and so that's…and if we don't…it's not just those poor kids, it's everyone, and heaven help the world if it makes him strong enough to crack that blockade because – OW!"

Something struck him hard on the side of the head, completely breaking his train of thought, and his eyes narrowed as he saw Seamus lightly tossing another glistening-wet pebble in the palm of his hand. "If I might butt in?"

Neville rubbed at the spot where the rock had hit him more in annoyance than pain, glowering at his friend. "That how ancient Celtic warriors get a bloke's attention? Bash his brains in with a rock? No 'excuse me' in Gaelic, is there?"

"Get off it, if I wanted to bash your brains in, it's a lot bigger and we call it a shillelagh, but if you'll stop whingin' like a witch, ya could back up and tell me what the feck ya were talkin' about there."

Suppressing the extremely childish urge to roll his eyes, Neville started to reply, then stopped, getting to his feet again to reach across Phoenix's back behind his saddle. "Give me a moment, I'm getting my helmet first." He had expected the rock this time, and he turned in a flash, catching it neatly and hurling it away into the river.

It earned him a look of genuinely impressed surprise, and he allowed himself a single moment of smugly grinning satisfaction before it all fell away again as he patted the horse's flank. "Actually, I was thinking they look about rested, and if we don't want them to tie up or don't want to call it a day already, we need to get moving again looking for that ford. I promise I'll still tell you, though."

"Good enough, Fearless Leader." There were a few moments as hobbles were sorted out, damp and loosened clothing re-arranged, then they were both mounted again, following along the edge of the river as the search for a shallow place to wade or swim across gave him the perfect excuse not to meet the blue eyes directly as he broke the news.

"He's got two of Smith's kids"

A pause, and then he could hear the gasp as the connection was made. "Ya ain't talkin' 'bout  _Zach_ Smith, are ya? The D.A. lad – Hufflepuff, weren't he, our year? -- what left and came back 'gain?"

"I wish I wasn't. The boy, oh, Seamus, the  _boy!"_ And now he did turn, and he could feel the color drain from his face as he thought of what he had helplessly witnessed. "They – Zach and Meg – they named him after me, but he's got to be nineteen or twenty there now, and he looks so much like his father, it was like a Time-Turner! I half expected to see Ernie and Wayne dragged in after him!"

"I can see how that'd bugger a man's head," Seamus replied with cautious sympathy, "but what were he doin' with the lad in the first o' it?"

"He and his sister were going after the Diabhal Dubh themselves…seems like they were just the scouts, too. There were going to be more, they're not the only kids we left behind that feel like avenging their parents –"

There was a bitter understanding as Seamus cut across, the smile not reaching his eyes. "And after what we did, I don't suppose it'd be much use tellin' them they're too young."

"No, not really. But they were caught, and all the Diabhal Dubh sees is another pair he can use like Ron and Hermione, except he thinks Neville and Morag – that's the girl's name – could work even better, especially because she's a true virgin, or at least she was." He hoped that the almost rote steadiness to his tone wouldn't bring fresh accusations of heartlessness, but he had been forced to slam his emotions under the coldest iron control just to get through what he had seen the first time, and it wouldn't help to let it break now. "Still is technically, I suppose, but he likes to play with his food a bit before he eats it, and that's why I had to leave early. It was bad enough he made her brother watch. If I'd had to, I don't think I could have restrained myself from interfering, no matter how high the stakes. And they're high now, higher than they've ever been."

Thankfully, Seamus appeared able to read the faint tremble at the edge of his voice, see the hands wrapped so tight on the reins, the too-perfect posture, and his reply held empathy for so much more than Neville's situation or that of the two siblings. "Because as things are, he's destroyin' his own regime, 'cause there ain't but so long ya can rule o'er folk what're dyin' out under ya, only so long even his stockpiles'll last in a blighted land, but if he  _can_ make another go o' gettin' the full power o' the magic beneath him…."

"That's why we've got to win this," Neville agreed firmly. "Because if the Morrigan were wrong and time hasn't stopped, it's already pretty much too late, but if they're right and we can take the Faye and succeed where we half-failed at Druim Cett, we don't just stop him, we save at least two innocent lives and Merlin knows how much more suffering than you and I can ever imagine."

"Then come on!" Seamus' spurless heels nudged Capall's flanks, pushing him into a trot as he pointed ahead. "There's the ford, right up there! We cross, we keep goin' towards Gorias fast's these two broken-down nags'll carry us, and we do whatever we're supposed to do for their damned Three Trials or Sacred Wounds or whatever the feck they want o' us so we can destroy that sick bastard before it's too late all over again!"

Nodding eagerly, Neville pushed Phoenix into a trot as well, and it soon became an impatient canter, verging narrowly on breaking into a second all-out dash as the warhorses sensed the desire of the two men to press on, but as the distance closed and he began to see more clearly what Seamus' owl-sharp gaze had spotted from so much farther away, a sense of uneasiness began to replace the anticipation. Something wasn't quite right, the underbrush where the riverbed widened and calmed was too heavy, the shade of green different from what they had passed so far, and he squinted against the sunlight, trying to make out the shape of the leaves, the mottling of the vines.

Then he could see more than enough, and his heart clutched abruptly in his throat as he yelled out, leaning forward and down in a single desperate lunge that almost pulled him from his seat as he grabbed a handful of Capall's bridle and pulled up hard, Phoenix himself half-rearing in fury at being yanked so unceremoniously to a halt. "Stop!"

Capall twisted, bucked, but Seamus came off on his own, dropping like a cat to his feet to snatch the reins back from Neville's hand. Both horse and master were infuriated, but Neville hardly cared, his attention so raptly on the heavy thicket that the angry words barely registered at all. "T'hell's that about! Don't tell me ya can't ford a wee little trickle in that stuff…afraid you'll rust or sink, are ya?"

"It's not that." He waved a hand dismissively, dismounting himself to afford a better look as he tried to discern if there was a way through for them. "There, on the bank, those vines; the dark, thick ones. That's  _Dionaea Taliovintum_ : you can call it Jiltweed or Shepherd's Snare, but what it means is that we can't go that way."

"The feck we can't!" Seamus scoffed, staring at the harmless-looking tangle in obvious skepticism. "River just gets deeper towards the sea from here. If we don't take this ford, then who bloody knows when we'll find another."

"Then I think," Neville sighed heavily, turning to unstrap the saddlebags from Phoenix's back, "the Morrigan were listening to you when you said you wanted to get started properly. Unload Capall, we'll find a way to get our things across; unburden them as much as we can and let them try to swim it a little upstream where the current's stronger and it's deeper, but they should still make it if they're not carrying us and all this besides."

"Why d'ya say that?" He started to take a step forward, still leading the roan by the bridle, but Neville's hand lashed out, and the harmless grass at their feet rose and twisted into an instant, iron-strong tether that bound the animal resolutely in place. Seamus gaped at it for a split second, then whirled, his expression livid. " _Ya_ did that! Let go o' me horse!"

"Not unless you want it dead!"

Whether it was something in his tone or his face, the conviction of his words at last seemed to penetrate, and Seamus hesitated, looking from his companion to the water's edge and back with what was at least finally uncertainty rather than outright disbelief. "You're half off't, Fearless Leader."

"No, I'm not, and I'd thank you not to argue when I'm telling you to get away from a plant, any more than I'd argue with you when it comes to interpreting Gaelic graffiti." At last, the other man seemed to believe him, and he let out a breath of relief as he motioned carefully to release Capall. "Back up, and slowly. Watch out that you don't step on any creepers. We've got a serious problem."

Slowly, warily, Seamus obeyed, pulling back from the embankment several paces before beginning to untie his own baggage, his eyes never leaving Neville as he frowned. "So what is it, then? Got ya six kinds o' worked up, clearly, so I'm supposin' it's somethin' even worse than parsnips, ain't it?"

"This is definitely worse than parsnips." Phoenix now stripped of all but his bridle, Neville pulled off his own gauntlets, then began the complicated process of straps and buckles that fastened his sword and armor. "Once you've got Capall taken care of, strip down as light as you can while still keeping a layer of cloth wherever possible. How much do you weigh?"

The question seemed to startle him, and Seamus considered it a moment before shrugging. "Somewhere between one thirty, one thirty-five, I'd guess. I know I were one twenty me last year at Hogwarts, but I've put on a fair bit o' muscle since then. Ya could probably put it to one fifty, even sixty with me full gear, but if ya want that off, I'm light enough, I reckon…why?"

"Because I'm probably somewhere in the neighborhood of one eighty, myself – stripped to skin – and I won't have a chance in hell if you don't help me." The plate was in a shining pile on the ground surrounding Ascalon, and he took hold of the thick woolen tabard next, pulling it up and off with a rattle of mail. "See those stolons…the root-things going across the top of the soil?"

"Aye…."

"They're covered in pressure-sensitive trichomes. Something presses on them, the plant reacts…the vines are capable of rapid kinesis, and the leaves exude a powerful toxin that acts on the nervous and endocrine systems. If it's just an inanimate object hitting the trichomes, nothing happens, the plant doesn't waste its digestive enzymes, but if it's something living, the toxin causes excruciating pain as well as a surge of adrenaline and testosterone which stimulates the prey to fight back. And that's the last thing they do, because the first  _hint_ of damage to the plant, and the toxin changes to a powerful neuroparalytic, the carnivorous lobes open, and the prey is enfolded to begin digestion." He rattled the information off in almost a single breath, not noticing the dumbfounded look on his companion's face until he had already finished.

Neville shrugged, but the embarrassment was barely fleeting as he sat down to remove his boots. "Sorry for the Herbology lesson, but I'm pretty sure that this is our first trial. The Wound to the Body, you know? It can't be a coincidence that we've been stopped by something we'd have no chance of getting past without one another and that's also going to be physical hell."

The tanned, freckled face was pale, but Seamus still looked confused as his own armor began to join the growing heap. "I follow ya enough to get that I'd have been right fecked without ya, Professor, and I'm agreein' on it bein' a test far's ya go, but I don't see how's you're needin' me. What I know 'bout plants could be summed up in Sprout's classes and me Mam makin' me eat me vegetables…and they never tried t'eat me back, neither."

"I need you," Neville explained, "because the quantity and potency of the initial toxin is in direct proportion to the pressure exerted. Which means that I'm going to be hit a  _lot_ harder – about forty percent over again as hard as you. Even if I keep myself from fighting back, I'm almost certainly going to go down, and if that happens, odds are ridiculously high that I'll damage something. If I'm going to survive this, I'll have to rely on you to not only endure the pain yourself, but help keep me moving and get me through into the water…" He forced a weak kind of smile. "Which, good news, should wash it off pretty immediately."

Seamus gave a low, incredulous whistle. "And if we fight back, even a little…."

"As you like to say, we're proper fecked."

"They know us, don't they?" There was a pause as Seamus unlaced the thongs that wrapped the soft boots up his calves, and his voice was hushed when he contined. "Everythin' I'd have said we had goin' for us in a physical challenge…your size and strength, me own speed and will t'fight, our armor and weapons…they've turned it exact around on us neat as ya please."

"It's brilliant," Neville agreed. "Quite possibly deadly, but brilliant."

"Cuchulainn never mentioned 'easy' as one o' the things 'bout a Quest."

"It wasn't high on Kaye's list either." He was down to nothing but his linen undertunic and the light wool-knit hose now, but he felt strangely heavier than he ever had in his life, even when he knew he no longer bore any trace of what Gran had called the "puppy fat" he had carried through his childhood and young adolescence. Rubbing his hands together, he willed himself to ignore it, focusing instead on the resolve he would need to endure the plant's violent effects as he looked to his friend. "You ready?"

Seamus stood, himself likewise wearing tunic and leggings alone. "Unless ya want me strippin' to nothin' at all…might save a pound or so, I guess."

"Not worth it." Neville shook his head dismissively. "Some Herbologists believe that contact on bare skin is more severe."

"And the others?"

"That clothing holds the toxin against the skin more," he admitted, then smiled blackly. "But I'm personally in agreement with the first group, for what it's worth."

"Good enough for me." The blue eyes held a trust that was rather disconcerting after the dark cynicism he had become accustomed to, and there was no trace of irony in his tone. "Ya sure's hell seem know what you're on about."

"Glad you've changed your mind there," Neville said awkwardly, then took hold of Phoenix's dangling reins and began to lead the destrier upstream again past the deadly plants. "Lets send the horses across first, then once we're over and we've recovered – assuming we make it – we should be able to summon our things across with magic. I know I'll certainly want it all back badly enough."

"All right, then." The horses balked briefly at the river's edge, but a mixture of gentle cajoling and firm commands eventually coerced them into the water, and they watched in silence until it was clear that both were going to make it across easily before Seamus turned to him, his face unreadable. "Ya sure ya want to trust me with this, Fearless Leader? I ain't the best for keepin' me temper when I  _ain't_ pumped full o' some mad toxin."

"I know," Neville met his friend's eyes evenly, allowing him to see his own fear, but also the absolute sincerity that lay behind every word. "But I also know that even with everything that's happened between us, you've never once let me down when it really mattered."

The compliment seemed to fall uneasily at best, but the casual shrug and derisive chuckle rang false as Seamus tried to brush it aside. "Lets just hope this ain't the first time."

Neville didn't reply, and they made their way back to the ford, stalling a few more moments of unspoken agreement as they fussed with their equipment, tying it a little too carefully into two neat bundles. At last, however, there was nothing else for it, and they faced the innocent-looking snarl of greenery as if approaching the gallows. Seamus was twisting the end of his braid again in what he had come to recognize as the only sign of nerves he didn't seem capable of hiding, and it belied the levity in his voice. "So we just…walk on in?"

"Try to stay where the vines are thinnest, step between the stolons wherever you have half a chance, and  _don't damage the plant_ , but otherwise…" Neville took a deep breath, wishing desperately that his own magical affinity for growing things could spare him some of what he knew was coming, but well aware that whether it were the Morrigan or some other force that had laid this obstacle in their path, he wouldn't be able to get off so easily as to charm the poisoned vines away from himself. "Yeah," he finally whispered, "just walk on in."

"We've both been Cruciated, ya know." The hand on his arm was strong but kind, and he squeezed it back without looking, more grateful for the hundred things held in the quiet words than he could hope to express.

"Oh, I remember."

"Can't be that bad, can it?"

Now he did look, raising one eyebrow as he thought both of the particularly nasty memories that curse invoked and of the few first-hand accounts he had read from witches and wizards lucky enough to have escaped the botanical curiosity they were about to deal with. "Lets not rate these things, shall we?"

"Fair 'nuff."

Another moment of hesitation, and although he considered himself not at all lacking in courage, he was still unsurprised when it was Seamus who went first. He remembered faintly that the other man had proven a remarkably accomplished dancer a few times during their youth, but never had he seen someone move like he now was, so incredibly quick and light, his feet lacing surely through the tangle of roots as though inches of space were actually miles. For a single held breath, the heady possibility held that he might do it, that he might make it more than a few strides, but then the stolons thickened, and there was no amount of brilliant footwork that could hold off the inevitable.

Like nature's cat o'nine tails, the vines descended on him in a writhing green mass, but by the time the first scream of shocked agony had torn from Seamus' lips, Neville had taken the plunge himself. He knew there was no chance of repeating the strategy of attempted evasion, so he did the only thing he could, charging in at a flat sprint in the hope that sheer momentum would carry him through.

The pain he had been ready for, as much as a man ever could be, but he was completely blindsided by the  _rage_. It was like the most intense moments of mindless battle-frenzy he had ever experienced, raw and roaring on a level he had never known, because the closest experiences had always been imbued equally with fear, with loss, with the need to retain the thin fiber of command or the desperate attention to the one who commanded.

This was the purest scarlet, the red of fresh-spilled blood transformed from mere color to explosive physical reality. Every muscle felt flushed and heated, swollen with power and the need to hurt, tear, kill, ravage,  _destroy_ the thing that brought the pain. Every sense was heightened, expanded, brought into brutal precision that made every leaf snap like a gunshot, every twisting vine move in cruelly graceful slow motion that would be so easy to catch and rend and break, the taste of blood in his mouth more copper-bitter than it had ever been, and the pain, the pain was every bit as intense as the Cruciatus, but this wasn't crippling, it was galvanizing, and he could feel the last rational whispers of self-control whimpering away under the inhuman roar of the tortured beast coming from somewhere that couldn't possibly be him.

He couldn't stop himself. He had to do something; he could conquer the fire in his skin that tore apart his body or the fire in his blood that tore apart his mind, but not both, not any more, not as it continued to build and boil. The only option held out by the last scream of self-control was to turn it against himself, and he curled in, hands grabbing at the bunching, corded muscles of his own shoulders so hard that somewhere he knew that bones would shatter or fingers punch through flesh within moments, but it didn't matter, because he  _had to do something_ and if he turned it where it begged and deserved to be, it would be  _worse_. He didn't remember how, but he knew it would be  _worse_ , and so he tore into himself as the animal's howls clawed apart the crackling air.

Everything was spinning around him, he had no idea where he was any more, so lost in the sheer battle against his own imploding world, but suddenly there were other hands on his shoulders, and the thing that had devoured him seized upon this new target in fresh, seething hunger. He lunged drunkenly, but it moved too fast, and still it had him, and he was being propelled one stumbling step at a time, no matter how he fought, how he twisted under the desire to maul and mutilate this damnable gadfly that always stayed a heartbeat out of reach.

Then he was falling, freezing, choking, drowning as the water closed over his head in an ice-cold slap that reeled him back to sanity in a suddenness as shocking as the plunge into madness itself had been. The river. He was in the river.

Trembling, shoulders throbbing terribly, Neville pushed himself up as his feet found bottom, relieved to find that the river barely came to his upper chest when at last he managed to stand, sputtering and spitting water in harsh, spasmodic coughs. He shook his head, trying to re-orient himself, but a swirl of frantic motion caught his eye before he had the first chance to re-establish his bearings, and he spun, nearly falling as his feet slid on the mossy pebbles of the riverbed.

It was Seamus, and although the water was far from being over his head either, he was still unmistakably in trouble. His sandy hair was slicked wet-dark against his skull, but it was illuminated by a bloom of red that trailed like a devil's halo into the water around him, and he didn't seem able to stand straight, struggling and increasingly failing to keep his mouth above the surface or his legs beneath him.

Neville moved without thinking, his own lingering pain and injuries forgotten entirely as he scooped an arm around his friend's chest, yanking him up and clear even as it prompted a gagging cry and gasp that explained the strange posture in what had to be badly bruised, if not broken ribs. He shifted his hold, trying to be gentle now, even though Seamus seemed barely conscious any more, and by the time he had made his way to the far bank and crawled out onto the soft, benign grass, the blue eyes were completely unfocused, fluttering on the brink of passing out entirely.

"Seamus! _"_ He tore open the other man's tunic, horrified to see the deep discoloration already mottling the elaborate designs of his torso where he knew he must have been the one to strike so brutally. And yet the only marks on his own body were the impressions of his fingers in the meat of his shoulders, which meant that he hadn't just kept his head, hadn't just seen them through, he hadn't even retaliated in the one place it would have been allowable, even excusable. He'd just held on, gotten him out, taken it and pulled them to safety in the –

Neville gasped aloud as he remembered something from lakeside weekends now half a lifetime in the past, suddenly wanting to curse himself for his own stupid forgetfulness, even as he couldn't believe Seamus hadn't reminded him. "You  _idiot!_ Why didn't you remind me you couldn't swim?!"

The words had been hissed under his breath, he hadn't expected a response, but to his amazement, Seamus moaned, then coughed shallowly, bringing up a mouthful of red-tinged water and spitting it into the dirt as he rolled gingerly onto one side, cradling his chest with one carefully crooked arm. "Didn't think 'bout that," he mumbled. "'Sides…do pretty good at…not drownin'…when I ain't had…t'livin' shite…beat outa me first."

"I'm so sorry!" Neville wanted to do something more to help, but Seamus shook his head in refusal, and he watched guiltily as his friend swayed slowly, painfully to his knees.

For a moment, he seemed as if he were about to be sick, then he swallowed it back, licking his lips as he glared across the river to the once again harmless-looking vines. "So that's…whaddya call it?"

" _Dionaea Taliovintum,"_ Neville recited hollowly.

"And ya play with those bastards for  _fun?!?"_

He nodded, amazed to see the teasing sparkle already beginning to resurface through the pain in the other man's eyes. "More or less."

Seamus snorted, but it turned into another wracking spasm of strangled coughs, and this time he didn't push it away when Neville steadied him, easing him carefully back down to lie on his side. "You're feckin' mental."

Neville smiled, reaching down to pull one long strand of hair out of were it had fallen into his friend's eyes. "Probably. "

And now those eyes turned up to him with a vulnerability and defiance that were each too potent to possibly exist together, but which somehow didn't cancel one another out, rather heightening themselves to a mixture that struck and burned as sharply as its own silent venom. "Didn't let ya down, though."

He was beginning to feel the aftermath a bit more himself now, and his lip - already creased and bruised by his teeth - split as he smiled, but he didn't care, and there was something perhaps even right about the few crimson droplets that scattered his hand on Seamus' chest as he shook his head slowly. "No…you've never let me down."


	22. Hindsight is Blind

As soon as he had satisfied himself that Seamus hadn't sustained any major injuries he might have missed, Neville set out to retrieve their horses and equipment, insisting that his companion stay where he was. It worried him that there was barely a token protest to this, and he resolved to make a much more thorough examination of the damage he had inflicted as soon as he had a chance.

Phoenix responded instantly to his summons, trotting over obediently from where he had been both enjoying his freedom and the warm sunlight in a bucking, rolling revelry that didn't do much to undermine the image of an extremely overgrown cocker spaniel. Capall was another matter entirely, and Neville was about to resort to using magic to ensnare the horse a second time when Seamus pointed out that he could 'come' and even 'hither thee' until he was blue in the face, but that  _tagaimid_ might get significantly better results. He was pretty sure he had mangled the pronunciation dreadfully based on his friend's obvious, wincing attempts to stifle a laugh, but it worked well enough, and even if it was just confusion at hearing a vaguely familiar command, he soon had both mounts safely hobbled nearby.

Levitating the two bundles of gear across the river was the work of only moments, and Neville tore his open instantly, pushing aside armor and provisions to find the parcel of things Kaye had supplied him for the extremely likely occurrence of one or both of them being hurt. He had already been warned that healing spells weren't likely to work except in the case of truly life-threatening wounds, as suffering consequences was an integral part of the Quest, but that didn't mean they couldn't do  _anything_.

There were salves and tiny packets of dried herbs, clean rolls of linen bandage, even a few implements that looked every bit as brutal as their intended purpose of extricating arrowheads and broken links of mail from human flesh, and he quickly selected what he needed, pausing only to take a few long strands of hair from the tail of the somewhat startled destrier before returning to Seamus' side. "I'll be setting up camp for the night, but I want you to let me help you first. It's the least I can do."

Seamus made a face, sitting abruptly upright in what was clearly meant to be an offended demonstration of his well-being, but was rather undermined by the remarkable shade of grey it caused him to turn and the way he tensed, stifling a gasp as he raised his chin defiantly. "I ain't made o' glass! Put that shite away…gimme me carapace. Strap it good and tight and I'll be fine for the road…ain't no time be wastin'."

"I don't think you're made of glass," Neville replied evenly, not in the least deterred, and in fact encouraged by the expected argument as he threaded a sharp bone needle with one of the lengths of horsehair. "As a matter of fact, Mr. Finnigan, I'd say you're very likely one of the toughest men I've ever met, but you're  _hurt_ , and if you're so determined to get back on the road, it's going to be tomorrow. For now, you rest."

"Ain't nothin'," Seamus insisted, twisting to pull away as Neville came around behind him, but the long hair proved his undoing as the other man wrapped the braid around his hand calmly, effectively immobilizing his head against the cry of outraged protest. "Ya – feckin' hell, it's just some bruisin' and a bit o' a crack on the head!"

"Which I'm going to sew up – it's a nice clean slice now that I look at it, so it was probably just a sharp vine -- but I'm still not sure those ribs aren't broken, and, as you said yourself, I kind of did beat the shit out of you."

Whether he sensed that the argument was unwinnable, or whether he was in more pain than he was willing to admit, or, as Neville suspected, a combination of the two, Seamus crossed his arms sullenly, submitting to the firm grip on his head with a distinctly childish pout. "I don't remember ya bein' this much o' a nursemaid in the D.A.," he grumbled.

"We had healing spells, things were easier." Seamus chuckled at this, and Neville paused, the tip of the needle barely an inch away from the still-bleeding cut that had stained a large swath of the blonde hair to scarlet. "What?"

"Things in the D.A. bein' easy." There was another low, rueful laugh. "Sweet mother's tears, Fearless Leader, ya ever think ya'd find yourself sayin' that?"

"I've learned," Neville muttered distractedly, satisfied enough now that his unwilling patient would stay put to release the braid and free both hands to his task. "That it's better not to think about what I ever imagined could happen. If I really thought about where I've wound up at the age of I'm-not-even-sure-what, that would probably be the last time sanity and I were on speaking terms."

"Fair that." He felt Seamus flinch a little as he began the first stitch, but his voice brooked no hint of discomfort, sounding every bit as casual as if they were merely catching up over pints at the  _Three Broomsticks._  "Sure know I'd not've guessed none o' this when some chubby little bastard what couldn't remember shite came huntin' in me and Dean's compartment for his bloody toad."

"Oh, Merlin, Trevor!" Neville laughed fondly, shaking his head. "I haven't thought about him in ages! He got better about it for a while, but you know he ran away again before he died? Mimsy found him in the laundry a couple of years ago. Gran and I agreed it was kind of fitting, really. They say you die as you live."

He hadn't meant anything by it, but the moment the words passed his lips, they seemed uncomfortably weighted, and he had knotted off a second stitch and begun the third when Seamus finally spoke again. "Then by that, how d'ya suppose we're goin' out?"

"A long time ago," Neville replied quietly after a moment's thought of his own, "I'd have thought I'd be a very old man who fell asleep in his garden and never woke up, like my grandfather."

"Reckoned I'd have said I'd drink meself to death." He couldn't see his friend's face, but he could hear the bleak smile in the statement, and his own mirrored it.

"You tried pretty hard for a while there, but when I first met you, I'd have said you probably would have gone down in a duel after saying something completely true and completely stupid to a much more powerful wizard with no sense of humor." Neville had tried to infuse the awkwardly naked confession with a kind of joking flippancy, but the quiet vulnerability in the reply proved that his attempt had failed.

"And now?"

"I still wouldn't rule that out," he said honestly, then took a deep breath, carefully keeping his eyes only on his own hands as he snapped off the horsehair thread again. "Really, though, I suppose it'll probably be in battle for both of us. I mean, that's what we are now, isn't it? Soldiers, through and through."

"Me, sure, but I don't think it's got to your heart so deep's ya say. You're a hell o' a thing on the battlefield, sure enough, but you've a gentle core, always have." He had paused between stitches, and when Seamus shifted to look at him, there was something different about the look on his face, a kind of real maturity that was all the more unusual in someone whose eyes had never truly been young or innocent. "I don't think that's changed none."

"Maybe," Neville admitted quietly. "But it doesn't – oh, hell, I'm going to have to pull this one and do it again. Your hair's getting in the way more now that it's starting to dry."

"Go ahead," Seamus shrugged. "If ya need t'cut back a bit 'round the wound, me knife's sharp 'nuff that I use it for shavin'."

"Thanks, but I'd rather not if I don't  _have_ to." He threaded the needle again, then bit his lip in concentration as he used his forefinger and thumb to pinch the edges of skin together while holding the hair back with the rest of his hand. "I haven't shaved in a long time, just kept this trimmed, and I'd rather not get back in the hang of it with a knife around a half-stitched cut." Neville paused as he tied the stitch, successfully this time, then sighed. "But what I was saying…it doesn't  _matter_  anymore. It's not some gentle core that's going to face the Diabhal Dubh again if we get through this, I promise you. There's  _nothing_ gentle in what I feel about that monster."

"If there ever had been, he crossed that line true enough when he took your Hannah from ya."

The casual mention stopped him cold, the needle suspended half-imbedded in his friend's scalp, then he ducked his head, and his voice was as frozen as the world they'd left behind. "I don't think about her anymore."

"Liar," Seamus fired back immediately. "You're still wearin' your ring."

"Fine. I don't want to talk about it, then. How's that?"

For a moment, it looked as though a scathing comeback was on the tip of Seamus' tongue, then just as Neville had braced himself, he stopped, and the look that replaced it was one of quietly blended acceptance and guilt. "I guess I lost that right ten years ago, didn't I?"

"Not to put too fine a point on it, but yes."

Maybe it wasn't entirely fair, but the thought of that night was still enough to tighten his throat with equal parts grief and anger, and he was grateful when the next words to break the late morning stillness were an obvious and welcome attempt to change the subject. "So what're we gonna  _do,_ exactly?"

"Set up camp for now," he replied at once. "Give you a chance to rest, check ourselves good and thoroughly to see how exactly we've come out of Round One, have something to eat. We can get back on the road to Gorias in the morning, assuming you haven't started coughing up blood overnight or anything."

"I meant about the Diabhal Dubh." Seamus corrected him. "Don't know 'bout ya, but I've just sort o' had this vague thing where we're gonna take the Faye and 'stop him.' Like showin' up'll just…." He snapped his fingers, then waved his hand in an aimlessly scattering motion. "Y'know…."

"You're right, now that I come to think of it." There were still two or three more stitches to go, but the cut had begun to clot in earnest, making it far more difficult, and he reached for the small jar of salve Kaye had promised him was good for cleaning wounds. The moment the first daub of the foul-smelling paste touched his head, however, Seamus let out a harsh yelp of shock and jerked away so fast that for an instant Neville thought he might have Apparated.

"T'feck ya do t'me feckin' head?!" He had landed several feet away, and the blue eyes were huge in mingled pain and indignation. "Warn a bastard, would –" His voice died off abruptly, and he doubled over almost completely, both arms wrapped around his chest and his face waxen. Neville dropped the jar, hurrying to his friend's side just in time to be met with an embarassed half-smile through gritted teeth. "So ya were right 'bout the ribs, maybe ya were."

"How bad?"

"One for sure…maybe two or three," Seamus confessed. "Hard t'tell exact. Oh, no!" He pushed away Neville's extended hand, shaking his head firmly. "Ya ain't touchin' me no more 'til the fire on me head goes out!" Carefully, every motion precisely calculated, he eased himself down to the grass again, taking a slow, experimental breath before continuing. "We were talkin' 'bout somethin' important, anyway. I just need a second to catch meself…go on."

"I was saying you were right…I've also just assumed it would take care of itself, which was stupid, but we didn't have the full picture." Neville made sure the other man was seated as comfortably as possible, still talking as he went to retreive the needle he had dropped. "I guess we should start making some decisions on that, though. We've got as much information as I think we're going to get about what we're facing."

Seamus nodded, the color starting to return to his face now. "Comin' back through at Druim Cett again?"

"Almost certainly if he's going to set up for another ritual like the first one. He'll want Bran's Cauldron, so we can assume we'll be coming through that way, which will put us smack in the middle of the circle. And he'll have his whole army there, plus as many of the public as they can find a way to cram in. How's your head?"

"Ya can start your embroidery again if ya need to, but one more drop o' that other shite, and I'll shove it up your arse 'til you're spittin' it, I will." It was clearly no hollow threat, and Neville was smart enough to take it quite seriously, but then something else crossed the freckled features, a look of obvious epiphany that lit his face with a sudden and dazzling grin. "Wait…he'll have the people there?"

"That's what he said," Neville agreed cautiously.

"When ya felt the land, Fearless Leader, was there anythin' there?" There was a breathless urgency to the question, and although he felt like he was missing something that should have been blindingly obvious, he had no choice but to frown bemusedly.

"I don't understand."

"Is Erin dead, or is she just real bad hurt?"

"Not dead yet…" Neville hesitated, taking the time given by starting the next stitch on the now-cleared cut to consider how to phrase the devastation he had been sucked into soul-first. At last he realized there was no way to truly convey the experience, and he sighed. "Yeah, you could definitely say 'real bad hurt.'"

"And if ya had a chance, could ya do anythin' to help?"

"Not alone." The admission felt like a failure on a level he couldn't quite explain, but he wasn't about to lie. "Maybe I could heal a single tree, bring a small garden back to life with a lot of hard work and all my magic, but bringing an entire nation back from the brink is way beyond me."

"But ya wouldn't be alone, ya'd be backed by all the forces o' light and good, by the Sidhe themselves," Seamus pressed eagerly.

"I don't…" He paused, his eyes narrowing. "What are you thinking, exactly? There's more going on here than just wanting to see the Emerald Isle live up to her name again, isn't there?"

"I'll need a distraction – a feckin' huge one –" Seamus explained. "And somethin' that's sign enough t'make people ready to listen to hope they've long abandoned…crackin' the grip o' four years solid winter seems like just the thing t'do both, not botherin' to add that it'd probably knock the Diabhal Dubh's own magic for quite the little loop."

It still didn't make a lot of sense, but it was enough that Neville gave it several seconds of serious consideration before responding, his tone deliberately non-committal. "Would you be willing to accept something local?"

"Just Druim Cett?" Seamus shrugged, started to nod, though the gesture was quickly aborted as the needle pricked his scalp again. "Sure, if it were good."

"I'm nothing special as a wizard, really – hear me out!" He cut off the protest that he knew would come at that, hardly able to believe what he was about to say as it was and knowing he couldn't do it if he were argued. "But I know I've got some real talent with plants, a genuine  _gift._ Still, what you're asking for is an honest-to-goodness miracle, and normally, I'd say you were out of luck. Except Druim Cett is sacred ground for me…in the worst way, but still hallowed, and if I have that, and I can reach out to the strength of the people who gave their lives for me there, and if I really have the Sidhe backing me…."

Neville took a deep breath, licking his lips. What Seamus was asking was huge beyond reason, but he thought of all the things he had already seen, already done, and he knew deep in his heart that while the power did not exist within himself, he did have faith that there was something much, much larger that he might be able to touch, to draw upon for this seemingly impossible thing. At last, his voice was the whisper of a stranger, and it was not for himself that the answer came. "I can give you your miracle."

"Then I can give ya Ireland." There was no sign of any similar conflict in the bold declaration, and it took Neville a moment to realize what it implied, his eyes widening.

"You mean turn the people against him? You think you could convince them to rise up after everything they've been through?"

"Seein' me will do a hell o' a start."

Neville hesitated, choosing his words carefully so as not to offend. "I didn't think even the Sluagh was  _that_  well-known, Seamus, and it's been a  _long_ time…."

"He weren't," Seamus admitted indifferently. "But that's still part o' it in a way. I ain't proper handsome, but I look feckin'  _Irish_ to me core. Bleed green, I do."

At this Neville snorted bemusedly, one eyebrow raised as he reached down to display his blood-stained fingers. "I beg to differ. At least where I come from, we call this  _red_."

The reply as his hand was batted away was brief and in Gaelic, but Neville needed no translation before his comrade went on, undeterred. "Icarus and I, we worked me looks t'our advantage. We were tryin' to make a myth o' me, so I didn't cut me hair, I ran the knotwork up from me chest to where't could be clear seen, scarred me face, did all's we could t'make me look like one o' the old heroes, and now with me armor and the clothes and all this…it don't matter if they know Seamus Finnigan from jack shite. Ask them to close their eyes and picture a real, ancient, blood-and-glory Irish warrior-hero, and I'm the very thing they'll all be seein'."

"I get where you're going. That kind of iconography has some serious power of its own, and it might be enough to get people to act now, wonder if it's possible later." The excitement in his own voice surprised him, but the plan that was beginning to take shape was actually making sense. Bolder, certainly, more audacious and downright brazen than anything he would ever have come up with, but there was a long-suppressed part of himself that  _liked_ the idea of beating the devil at his own showman's game.

"And between a sudden change o' seasons and his meek little crowd goin' mental on him…." There was a mad tumble to the sentences drawn on half-breaths that only accentuated the thrill behind them "…it'll be more than enough for us and ours to get all through, queer his party, and be ready to take on his army 'fore they've sorted their arses what's goin' on!"

"We'll need to really work together…."

"We're gettin' pretty good at that, I'd say," Seamus insisted confidently.

"Not too bad." The grin on his face was so wide it almost hurt as he snapped off the thread a final time, giving Seamus a quick pat on the back as he stepped away. "There. You're done." He tilted his head, watching as the other man carefully probed the freshly mended injury. "Took sixteen stitches…has anyone ever said you've got a skull thicker than an iron cauldron?"

"Now and then…." He made an aggrieved face, then sighed as deeply as his battered ribs would allow. "Ah, I miss Lavender now, I do."

"Huh?"

"Girl could sew. Bloody Hinkypuck coulda stitched me up tidier than this."

Neville frowned indignantly. "They don't have hands!"

"Me point exactly."

"Some gratitude!" He tried to sound put out, profoundly wounded, but he couldn't manage it even partially, and he found himself laughing instead. "You're impossible, you know that?"

"Been told it all me life, Fearless Leader." Seamus winked at him. "Been told it all me life. But now, since you're done pokin' more holes in me in the name o' medicine, and since ya seem so shagged out by our little donny with the greenery back there that ya don't think we can go on for the day, what say's ya make me some lunch while I sort out the rest o' how we're goin' to take ourselves a country back?"

OOO

Even at close examination, Neville's initial suspicion that he had sustained nothing worse from their first task than some deep bruises to his shoulders turned out to be correct, but Seamus was another matter entirely. Although he tried to keep an optimistic attitude, agreeing that yes, it could have been much worse, he was privately deeply worried. In addition to the already-stitched cut, careful probing had shown his friend to have suffered at least three nastily broken ribs, the ends of the bones grating palpably beneath his fingers with each breath, and his entire torso was badly bruised from what he finally admitted were at least a dozen solidly landed blows.

Overall, Seamus was right in insisting that the injuries themselves were not all that severe, and the pain had been greatly reduced by pulling the laces as tight as possible on his stiff leather carapace to serve as a splint, but Neville knew that if he were to exert himself too much, or heaven forbid, take another good blow to the chest, it would be all too easy to puncture a lung and put him in dire trouble. With two more trials still ahead, the odds of that seemed distressingly high, and he found himself hoping that the Quest would stretch at least long enough for the bones to knit completely before they had to face the Diabhal Dubh's army.

Still, there was nothing that could be done beyond the steps they had already taken, and Neville resolved himself to trust that the Morrigan would not have put them into an impossible situation. He was grateful that for all his stubbornness, Seamus had allowed him to set up camp completely on his own, though he had not been entirely idle in that time. Rather, he had used his time to make a list of the dark creatures he recalled from the first battle, and when Neville had finished, he began instructing his former Commander on the intricacies of their foes.

The thing that had killed Hannah, he learned, was a Leanashe, a sort of female vampire-Dementor that sucked away a person's life and soul along with their blood, while the emaciated creatures they had encountered again on their brief visit had been Fear Gorta, the living embodiment of famine that destroyed a person's strength at the first touch before consuming them alive. He learned about the demon-dog Barghest, headless Dullahan, and the child-eating Black Annis, but for all the litany of horror, he felt only eagerness as he listened.

While he himself had become expert at the weapons they would need to use in this battle, it was Seamus who had studied under a man who had faced these very beings, and for every dark strength, his former Lieutenant was equally versed in their weaknesses and the ways to defeat them, and in the strengths of the Faye themselves. He also had a strong grasp of tactics himself, and the day passed so quickly that they scarcely remembered to eat and keep their campfire burning, so wrapped up were they in questions of numbers and deployment, counter-measures and military minutia.

Seamus had seemed braced for another fight when he had suggested that he be put in command of their attack, but Neville had agreed without hesitation. He pointed out that he had already selected the other man as his second-in-command once, which he would not have done if he didn't have faith in his ability to lead a battle, but that furthermore, this was something where he had every advantage from language to the deeper cultural sensitivities they would need to use if they hoped to add the crowd of onlookers to their numbers.

Arming those people was their greatest challenge, as neither of them were willing to rile a mob who would be fighting a doomed battle of empty hands, but Neville pointed out that the magic on their side was the magic of creation and fertility, so certainly, if they chose their weapons wisely, they might be able to coax them to multiply for as many willing soldiers as they could claim. What exactly that might be held them for another hour, and then Seamus hit upon the idea of the ancient blackthorn shillelagh, and they both concluded that in ease of use – anyone could wield what amounted really to a big stick – natural makeup, and historical roots, it was their best option all around.

By the time they finally fell asleep – both wanting to continue but simply too exhausted to go on – the eastern sky had already begun to lighten anew, and the sun was high, the fire a cold pile of whitened ash when they awoke again. Neville was the first to rise, grimacing as he sat up and stretched stiff, aching limbs.  _At least_ , he thought,  _I didn't fall asleep in my armor. Kaye told me how much fun_ that  _can be._

Waking Seamus was an art he still remembered from their years in Gryffindor Tower together, and he stood back a full two paces beyond what seemed sensibly out of range before taking a chunk of twice-baked bread from his pack and hurling it carefully at his friend's head. It connected perfectly, causing grumbling protest more than any real wakefulness, and he had prepared to do it again, but the attempt to roll over caught the broken ribs, and the blue eyes flew open with a gasp of shock. " _Oh –"_

"'Morning…or closer to noon, I'd guess," Neville smiled. "If you look about a foot from your right ear, there's breakfast for you. How're you feeling?"

Seamus sat up gingerly, yawning and scrubbing at his eyes with the backs of his fists before answering as he reached for the chunk of rock-like bread. "Like some bloody great bastard used me for a feckin' punchin' bag yesterday, how'dya think I feel?"

"Second and third day'll be the worst," he nodded sympathetically. "Are you sure you don't want to take another day off your feet? We've still got a lot of stuff to cover about Druim Cett."

"Ain't gonna matter none if we don't  _get_  there," Seamus said stubbornly. "Ya got me down for one day, don't press your luck. I'll be fine once I'm up and about some…it's bein' stiff more than anythin' else, 'tis."

Neville frowned, reaching down to help his friend to his feet. "Don't be stupid, Finnigan. There's no point in grandstanding with me, not when I've broken ribs before myself. Yeah, you're probably okay to ride again today, but only if you don't go making matters worse."

"Oh, I'll take a leg-up if that's what you're tryin' to say," Seamus allowed. "And I ain't plannin' on anythin' too excitin' for a bit, but we've got get movin', we do. Have ya checked on the horses?"

"They're fine." He motioned towards where their mounts were grazing calmly, barely having noticed their masters at last having bothered to wake up. "I can get things broken down and pack them up again in half an hour or so if I really move, but I want you to take Phoenix."

"Ain't no way you're ridin' mine!" The loose hair whipped in his face as Seamus shook his head fervently. "'Sides the fact ya can't manage him, you're feckin' mad heavier than he's used to once you're all in your mail and shite."

"I've no intention to go anywhere near an animal that I'm still pretty sure wants me dead," Neville confirmed wholeheartedly. "I'd walk. The thing is, Phoenix is smooth as silk to ride, and I've got a jousting saddle with full cup stirrups that'll make it a lot easier for you."

For several seconds, it was clear that Seamus was giving the matter real consideration, which said more than anything yet how much his ribs must truly hurt, but then he shook his head again. "Fine o' ya, 'tis, but your Phoenix couldn't be more off me own sweet Connemara if he true were part elephant. It'd be more risk o' me getting' hurt tryin' to ride with stuff I ain't got first idea about usin' than if I just tell Capall t'take it a bit easy."

Looking at the soft saddle and thin crossed straps of Capall's simple bridle and snaffle where they lay next to Phoenix's own intimidating collection of tack, he sighed, shrugging in defeat. "All right, you've got a point. Still…."

"I ain't feckin' daft!" An edge of annoyance snapped through Seamus' tone. "If I get meself hurt bad enough that I true can't go on, I'm done. Back to the Morrigan I go, failed and fecked. I'm pushin' through, sure, but I ain't gonna take no fool risks."

Seamus looked surprised and a little taken aback when Neville burst out laughing at this statement, but it soon changed to a chagrined smile as he managed the words past the completely inappropriate but impossible to restrain chuckles. "You. Playing it safe. I shouldn't have ruled out a concussion so easily!"

"Ah, Fearless Leader…." The blue eyes rolled skyward in an exaggerated look of martyrdom. "When did I ever say that? I just ain't wastin' me idiocy."

OOO

They did in fact take it easy that day, covering relatively little of the long road towards the distant southern city, but it was progress nonetheless, and they were able to use the easy pace to discuss the merits of longbow and recurve, how they would address strongholds, the possibility of leftover Muggle munitions both for themselves and their enemies, and a host of other topics. Towards the end of the day, Seamus had begun to grow quiet, and there had been no protest at all to the decision to make camp at the edge of the forest they had neared at sunset, but Neville was careful not to make a point of it. If his friend was this willing to be rational about his injuries, he wasn't about to invite trouble.

It was less than three hours before he discovered how wrong he was.

The sounds were faint, no louder than the subtle movements of the horses and the little living noises of the woodlands behind them, but there was a rhythm to it that plucked at his attention as he stirred the coals of the fire where the potatoes were roasting for their dinner, and he frowned, calling out into the darkness where Seamus had gone to check on Capall. "Do you hear that?"

There was no answer, just another round of the odd hiccupping noises, and he frowned, one hand on Ascalon as he stood. "Seamus?"

"Aye?"

The single word seemed off, rougher and yet softer than the last time his friend had spoken, and now every sense was on alert, and he stepped carefully away from the fire, allowing his eyes to adjust before he dared make a move. If it was to have been an ambush, the enemy would have acted while his attention had been fully diverted, but he didn't want to rush in blindly nonetheless.  _Besides,_ he reminded himself,  _he's been riding all day, he might just be having a little trouble raising his voice._ "Is everything all right?"

"I'm…it's nothin'. Just the ribs fussin' me a bit. Ya don't need…be actin'…." But the words cut off in another series of noises, and now that he could see, Neville realized that the sounds were coming from Seamus himself. The other man was little more than a shadowed outline beneath the empty, new-moon sky, but it was enough to tell that he was on his knees, curled forward with his arms wrapped around himself tightly, and though he abandoned his grip on the sword, it was with worry surging to replace the battle-ready tension that he hurried across the twenty paces that separated them.

"Don't give me that bollocks! What's going on? You're –" He stopped, suddenly recognizing the sounds for what they were. Coughs; choked and desperately stifled against stabbing pain but still forcing their way through in tight, clutched rasps. Neville winced sympathetically, understanding all too well how awful that particular fate could be, having lived through the combination of broken ribs and dust-filled air himself in the first few hours after Riddle's defeat. "Oh, hell, mate, did you swallow something off?"

There was a long silence, too long, and he knelt, pulling the Galleon from his pouch. He knew that  _Lumos_ would be useless, but he willed intently for light, for a way to see his friend's face, and was almost instantly rewarded as the coin began to glow. It was faint at first, so much that it might have been mere reflected starlight seeping from behind a cloud, but within moments it had grown to cast a clear, warm light that illuminated the two men with a noon-like brilliance.

Seamus had looked a bit pale all day, but now there was a chalkiness to his skin, the sick whiteness put into even more striking relief by the brilliant flush high on his cheekbones, by purplish lips flecked in the same scarlet that scattered his chin and smeared the back of one hand. "Fuck! You're suffocating!"

Neville dropped the Galleon -- which thankfully continued to shine unwaveringly -- but when he reached out to touch the clawed hands, hoping to guide him to a position where he could catch his breath more easily, he heard himself gasp in horror. The freckled skin wasn't warm or even slightly chilled with the evening air, it was burning almost radiantly, and he yanked his hand away, shaking his head in disbelief as if he could argue away the evidence of his own senses telling him that the man he had just agreed to hang everything on was in such dire straits. "No…you're…I don't understand…you can't be  _sick_ …they're just some broken ribs. It doesn't make  _sense!"_

"T'water…" Seamus managed, his face tightening as he swallowed back another cough. "Musta…got some in me lungs…couldn't cough it out with me ribs…with me ribs bust up."

"You mean you've been half-drowned for almost  _two days_  and haven't said anything!  _SEAMUS!"_ Neville didn't mean to shout, but anger was easier than fear right now, especially when it seemed like both were so completely useless in helping get more air between those ill-colored lips.

"No!" His eyes were gleaming fever-bright in the light of the Galleon, but the defiance was only a flash, and then another spasm of coughing claimed him. "Not drowned… _feckin' sick."_ The statement was a curse, an epithet as bitter as any he had ever heard, and he couldn't tell if what followed was another aborted cough or a sob.

It didn't matter, because this time he did move, wrapping the strong body in his arms as gently as if he were cradling a newborn lamb as he eased him to the grass, prying Seamus' hands away from what he knew was a counter-productive instinct. "I just don't get it," Neville said softly, gathering a handful of his tabard to wipe the blood from Seamus' face, the accusation in his tone now turned to guilt. "How could I have missed it if you were this bad? This can't have been since sunset."

"Weren't…been feelin' it…." It wasn't fever that made his eyes glitter now, and the tears spilled onto his cheeks as he let his head fall back, his face screwing up in what was clearly so much more than physical pain. "I just didn't want…to be…couldn't be…not now, oh, Jesus, not again…no…not  _feckin' again…_."

And he remembered the little boy who'd been in bed with the flu when the news came about his father, the days and weeks and months in and out of hospital, the years when it had seemed that there would never be a world beyond his bedroom door or at the best of times his own little neighborhood. He remembered the way that people reacted, how they called you brave but didn't really believe that a fighter's heart could beat in a 'fragile' child.

He knew. He knew with the bleak certainty of experience that was his own but never had been exactly what that thick clotting sensation felt like, the drowning on dry land, and how easy it would be to pretend the shooting pain was broken bones, the hunger for air just pushing yourself a bit too close to a bit too hard. There was no longer anything but empathy – not pity, never pity! – as he laced his fingers through Seamus', squeezing lightly. "Pneumonia, isn't it? Really bad, too."

"There's magic…" Seamus confessed faintly, "Can hide a man's weakness…Cuchulainn used it…himself…enemies…didn't even know…he were dead…'til a raven…landed on him…just couldn't hold…it up proper…."

"I'm glad! Dammit, Seamus, if you'd held up 'proper' a few more hours, I wouldn't have even known if you'd choked in your sleep until it was too late, and I don't think the Morrigan would have saved you from your own –" He stopped abruptly, his mouth dropping open as it all clicked together. " _Pride…."_

"I'm sorry, I just –"

" _Pride!"_ Neville repeated, squeezing tighter now, both more frightened than ever and yet feeling the first keen edges of hope teasing around this new realization. "Remember when you asked me about the second trial?"

Seamus frowned, confusion now painted atop the half-dozen other emotions and simple pain still twisting his face. "Ya said…it were the easy one…."

"I thought it would be! The Quest is meant to be undertaken by knights or great warriors – the upper classes, really." He shook his head, hating himself for his own foolishness in assuming that they would get off so easily. "Kaye said that the second trial would be the Wound to the Pride, usually some kind of menial task or woman's work that has to be performed without complaint, but that wouldn't be a big deal for us."

"Right…."

"Don't you get it? If you don't put aside your pride about getting sick again after all these years and let me help you – drop whatever magic I can  _feel_ you're still using and let me really help you – then this whole thing will be over tonight!"

The play of comprehension across Seamus' face was hard to watch; a struggle as deep and torturous as the fight for breath itself, but at last he drew a breath that was barely a sigh, though clearly as much as he could force into himself, and the tingling undercurrent of magic wafted away with the whisper of a sob. His eyes had closed, and when they opened again, there was no trace of shield there, just open, vulnerable suffering and the raw terror of slow asphyxiation. "I want…me Mam…."

Neville bit his lip, feeling as if he were witnessing something so intimate as to border on obscene, but he swallowed hard, forcing a smile that barely slid across his mouth alone. "It'll be okay."

He was lying, and he knew it, and so did Seamus. With the last of the concealment lifted, it was obvious that the aspirated mouthful of the river had metamorphosized into something far more deadly than a bit of water that couldn't be expelled. His skin wasn't just pale, it was blue, clammy even through the fever, and his pulse was a thready, frantic rush between Neville's fingers, each shallow breath rattling thickly in his cracked chest.

It didn't take a Healer to recognize that the infection was rampant, but he  _wasn't_ a Healer, and nothing in the package Kaye had given him would do the least bit of good for something like this. Without even fully knowing it, Neville had believed that it would go away, that his friend would sit up suddenly whole and healed if he would only drop the pride, but it hadn't happened, and it was obvious that if something wasn't done, and soon, he wouldn't be getting up at all.

Seamus seemed to have been thinking along the same lines, because those open eyes turned to him, questioning and achingly so near innocent in their incomprehension. "Why ain't…it no better…?"

"I don't know," Neville admitted, hearing the note of desperation that raised his voice almost an octave above its normal level. "Maybe I'm supposed to do something, but I don't know what!"

He stood up, beginning to pace urgently as he ran his hands through his hair, allowing the thoughts to tumble free into words without bothering to hide his own fear. "I'm not proud! I never have been! Dear Merlin, it's been a fight my whole life to  _have_  pride enough to just believe I'm worth anything! Maybe they want something else from me? Maybe they want me to do something I'm not good at, take a risk…maybe I have to get you something…a charm, a magical object, an herb, a potion, a…."

The answer wasn't his own. Instead it felt as though an invisible hand had tapped him on the shoulder, as if there had been an unseen nod from some higher power, and he halted in his tracks. His stomach was knotted, his throat felt thick, and he heard himself moan softly. "Oh, please…don't make me…not to him…not after…I could  _never_ …."

But the wordless voice in his heart was insistent, and he took a deep breath, feeling a twinge of guilt through the building, heaving distaste at the idea of having to need anything from the person who had defined hate for twelve years of his life. There was no choice, and he couldn't allow what he had no choice but to admit was the force of his own pride to not only continue Seamus' suffering, but that of so many others.

At last he closed his eyes, drawing back his shoulders as he tilted his face resolutely to the night sky. _Fine. You're Goddesses, you say there is no space or time for you, and I know you're going to make me ask this, you're not going to let me get away with anything less._ "Take me," he whispered. "Take me to Severus Snape."

OOO

He was at Hogwarts.

Not Hogwarts as he last remembered seeing it, still bearing the scars of fresh repair and here and there places that had yet to be fully restored from the devastation of battle, but serene in her ancient glory, towering above the vivid leaves and crisp air of early fall. Neville took a deep breath, a step forward, steeling himself to find his former teacher somewhere in the old school, but he stopped almost at once, staring down at himself incredulously.

The one satisfying factor in this whole prospect had been the idea that he would be facing Snape as a grown man, dressed as one of Arthur's own and armed with Ascalon herself, and he had even half-hoped he wouldn't be recognized; tall and confident, broad-shouldered and bearded. But his body felt awkward with the clumsy uncertainty of brand-new height, his arms were clad in black and scarlet-lined robes rather than glittering mail, the sense of dormant power in solid muscle was gone, his father's old linden wand tucked into a waistband that still bulged softly beneath the gray sweater.

"Come on, we're going to be late for class! Did you forget something back at Hagrid's?" Neville whirled sharply, barely catching a cry of surprise and unexpectedly sharp resurgent grief as he saw Harry, whip-thin and tousle-haired, pushing his glasses up on the bridge of his nose as he came jogging over, Hermione and Ron at his heels inseparably. "Didn't mean to startle you," he said easily. "The twins said Professor Umbridge might be 'examining Snape's curriculum,' and I'd love to see that, wouldn't you?"

"No…don't want to miss that." He knew he was staring, but he couldn't help it. It was so hard to reconcile the three rosy-cheeked young teenagers with the fates he knew were in store for them, and he shook his head, trying to push away the memories of shattered and blood-smeared glasses on a forest floor, a blackened and cannibalized corpse, long hair exploding into a wreath of flame.

Hermione's brown eyes narrowed shrewdly as she adjusted the strap of her heavily laden bookbag across her shoulder, tilting her head at him. "Is everything all right, Neville? You look…off."

"It's nothing," he said quickly, abruptly realizing that he was supposed to be fifteen as well, and it was the strangest thing yet to duck his head in what felt at once almost comfortingly familiar and yet alien embarrassment, his once again-rounded cheeks heating brightly. "Just thinking. You guys startled me a little, that's all."

Harry made a face, glancing back over his shoulder towards Hagrid's thatched hut. "Well, you can save that for somewhere else…I doubt Umbridge would approve of students thinking on school grounds."

"Dangerous business," Ron agreed, nodding solemnly.

"Not as dangerous as being late for Potions," Neville pointed out. "We  _should_ get going. If we're even a minute tardy, you know what a bastard he can be, especially to you and I, Harry. He's got us marked, whether we deserve it or not."

The trio exchanged an odd look, Ron's eyes widening slightly as he chuckled uneasily. "Er…yeah."

Neville could have kicked himself for the simple, adult confidence with which he'd spoken, the comradely manner with which he'd addressed the three Housemates he had then held in something very near awe. This trial, he was beginning to understand, would take more than just swallowing his pride to ask a favor of Snape, it would also mean surrendering everything he had risen above within himself. By the look of the grounds, it was only late September of his fifth year, and Harry wouldn't even have formed the first D.A. yet, which meant that he was still the shy, guilt-ridden boy quietly convinced of his own utter uselessness and just trying to get through life without disappointing people too badly or too often.

They had started to move towards the castle, but the three friends were whispering among themselves, and he tried to hang back. He'd not even understood how pervasively he'd grown, but it was as complicated as remembering a dance to shorten his stride, to bow his back, hold the books tightly rather than swinging his arms, keep his eyes down, not ask about or involve himself in their discussion. He had to hide the aching shock when Ernie shouted and waved a greeting from across the entry hall, even though that was Justin and  _Hannah_  standing next to him; pigtailed and red-faced with the crush he couldn't believe he'd missed for so long, and he wanted to run to her, take her in his arms and time be damned because it was still the girl who would be the woman who would be his wife and….

But he couldn't, and he knew it, and it was vitriol on his lips to smile in meek friendliness and mutter, "Hey, guys, gotta run…potions," before they vanished down the dungeon stairs.

Umbridge was not, in fact, in attendance, and for that, Neville was grateful. Whether or not she had been able to find anything to criticize in Snape's teachings – and from what he remembered, she hadn't, as blatant prejudice and unfair grading were apparently fully acceptable instructional techniques – it would have put the Potion's Master in a bad mood, something he couldn't afford. He had worried that the assignment itself might prove a poser to someone who hadn't  _actually_ taken the class in so long, but as the long, dark wand tapped the blackboard, he smiled.

_Anti-Dolorous Draught_

Snape turned to the assembled students, motioning back at his own small, cramped handwriting. "Who can tell me what this is?"

He almost raised his hand, changing the gesture to an awkward pass through his hair as he remembered that he  _never_  volunteered information in any class other than Herbology,  _certainly_  not in Potions, and he wouldn't yet have become so familiar with the potion that Jack, Romilda, and Anthony had taught them as they had more and more cause to need it for themselves and their friends through that last year. Hermione, of course, already had her hand so high in the air that it looked as if she were about to pluck cobwebs from the low-beamed ceiling, and Snape scanned the room before nodding to her with a grim sigh. "Once again, it falls on Miss Granger to be the bearer of all knowledge among us. Yes?"

"The Anti-Dolorous Draught," she recited instantly, "as its name suggests, deriving from the Latin 'dolor', or 'to feel pain', is a pain-relieving potion. A simple analgesic, it is considered extremely useful in cases where there is little or no real injury, such as headache, muscle fatigue, and the aftermaths of some curses and hexes."

"Page two hundred and four, paragraph eight of  _Potions, Tonics, and Poisons,_ by Brewer; which, if any of the rest of you have been bothered, is your assigned text this year. Letter-perfect as usual, Miss Granger, and as usual, entirely lacking in a single shred of an original idea." He sneered, then turned back to the board. Neville's hands tensed on his knees beneath the table, not missing the wince she tried to hide, nor Ron's tiny, comforting squeeze of her leg as Harry glared at the black-robed back.

"A full list of ingredients and procedures can be found on page one ninety-two, second entry. You will have thirty minutes to reach the second stage, and then I will inspect each of your cauldrons to insure that you may be permitted to continue without releasing corrosive gasses that would murder us all with your incompetence." Snape spread his robes around him as he settled behind his desk, waving his wand to summon over the pile of essays from the previous class.

Neville opened the book dutifully, but he never even glanced at the arcanely-phrased instructions that had always given him so much trouble. There was no need to wonder over what a "goodly" piece of dandelion root would be once Jack had said "about as big as a Chocolate Frog," and he could almost hear Millie's faintly exotic voice explaining that the right shade of deep red was the color Gryffindor robes turned when they were wet. You stirred clockwise (towards your right hand) for as long as it took to recite "Three Little Witches", then counter-clockwise (towards your left hand) for two goes through the ABCs.

"Tell me, Mr. Longbottom, have you been deliberately inept in my classes?"

The startle was genuine this time as Snape's voice sounded directly behind him, and he had completely forgotten how quietly the Potion's Master could move through the echoing dungeon classroom. "You—" He bit down hard on his lip, and even though it wasn't fear that made him shake as much as rigidly stifled adrenaline and a wave of hate, he stared miserably at the floor, hands pressed flat to the edge of the table. "No, Professor."

"Then please explain the contents of your cauldron?" Snape reached past him, raising a dipper full of the bubbling crimson mixture and allowing it to drip slowly back down.

"Anti-Dolorous Draught, Professor."  _No sarcasm, no attitude…he still scares you. Think of something else, whatever you've got to do! You can't screw this up!_ And he thought of Seamus' wide, desperate eyes, the awful clattering rales as he tried to breathe; the blighted horror they were trying to save, the wet, heavy thud of the hapless girl on the Belfast street. It was easier to pale beneath these things, to let the weight of them press his shoulders down in place of the fear that seemed so stupid now.

"And who, may I ask, has been helping you, considering that Miss Granger seems quite occupied with persuading Mr. Weasley's concoction to give him his knife back?" He could hear Malfoy's distinct snigger at this, squirmed and forced the blush to deepen, but his true instinct was to roll his eyes at the juvenile response.

"No one, sir. I've done it myself. I just followed the instructions like you told us to."

There was a long pause, and at last Snape struck the edge of the cauldron with his wand, vanishing the contents to Neville's gasp of dismay. "Ten points from Gryffindor for cheating, Mr. Longbottom."

"Professor!" He cried, but it was too late. The potion was gone, and Snape had already moved on to the next table.

He was leaning over another cauldron now, prodding grimly at the sticky black mass glued to the inside and sending up clouds of smoke that smelled of rotten eggs, and Neville knew he was lucky that he had excuse to gape, because it was Seamus' potion, and if it had been strange to encounter the dead, it was more bizarre still to see the living who had changed so drastically.

Seamus' face was still soft and boyish, his hair buzzed short and spiked in front, tie loose and shirt untucked as he leaned against the back wall, chattering casually with Dean while his potion was likewise disapproved and discarded. He looked so carefree and so much younger than even time allowed, his face playing through a dozen variations of the smile that seemed unable to leave it, his hands gesturing eagerly as he related some joke or anecdote that was making his best friend shake with giggles, one dark hand clamped over his mouth as his own eyes gleamed.

Had this really been their world once? This place where fear was a teacher's disdain and ten House Points lost, where pain was a mean-spirited rumor and loss something that happened at a Quidditch game? He wished he could go back and shake his younger self, tell him to stop worrying so much and embrace these years with all his heart, to not waste a moment surrounded by the friends whose lives were so unknowingly fragile.

He allowed himself to drink in the bittersweet nostalgia for the rest of the lesson, watching, just watching as Parvati and Lavender passed one another notes beneath the table, as Ron and Hermione mingled bickering and flirting in a balance so teetering that neither could tell which it really was, as Harry concentrated so very intently on his work, as Dean drew a picture of Snape in the margins of his textbook that Seamus charmed so that the nose grew until it toppled over in a sprawl of greasy hair.

Even the Slytherins' smug looks and archly biting comments that were meant to carry and Crabbe and Goyle's sycophantic chuckles, Pansy's ingratiating attempts to catch Draco's eye, Nott's perpetually upturned nose, Zabini's preening, Bullstrode's rather nauseating flirting towards Dean…. He wished he'd had more appreciation for the absurdity of teenagers' games danced on the edge of oh-so-serious adulthood, and he had to keep himself from laughing in real amusement and a little delight when he realized that Draco's mocking imitation of a slump-shouldered boy scratching his head in confusion at his potion was meant to be him.

At last, however, the students who had managed something at least vaguely resembling success were instructed to bring their vials to the front of the class, and he hung back, doing his best to blend into the dank stone walls as cauldrons, scales, books, and potions kits were packed into bags. As they all filed out, he could just hear Hermione's rather piercing voice raise in indignation above the babble of conversation. "…to Neville, I thought was just completely –"

She was cut off by the closing of the heavy doors, and now they were all gone, and Neville took a deep breath, stepping forward out of the shadowed corner. "Professor Snape?"

Surprise flickered in the black eyes as his sallow face jerked up from the line of vials on his desk, and he raised one eyebrow at the lingering student. "The matter is closed, Mr. Longbottom. When a student's work is so wildly inconsistent with his previous work in my class, I have every authority to conclude that he is cheating."

"It's not about that, sir. I…." He paused, and the shame of having to beg for help when he knew himself now to be the better man against someone whose only goodness in life had stemmed from an obsession with another man's wife was more than enough to put the tremor in his words, the flush in his face, to make him not want to meet those inky eyes but stare at his own scuffed shoes instead. "I need your help."

"If you are requesting tutoring, I do not have time to waste uselessly." Snape didn't look up as he tapped each vial with his wand, the contents either turning black and granular or glowing red and sorted accordingly into two piles.

"No, Professor, I need a potion, and you…" He took another deep breath, pushing through the rest before he could be cut off. "Everyone says that the reason you're the youngest Potions Master Hogwarts has had in centuries is that you're a genius at it, really mad brilliant, and I need help, but it's something where I can't afford to make a mistake and so I was hoping you'd be willing, because if not, I can't think of anyone else who could do it."

Snape stopped what he was doing now, and although his face remained impassive, even dismissive, there was a flicker of genuine intrigue deep in his eyes. "And what is this vitally important work of genius you think you need? A Homing Serum for your toad?"

"Something to clear fluid from the lungs," he blurted, knowing that there was no way to hide his intent and still be sure of getting what his friend needed.

Nodding, Snape leaned back in his chair, arms crossed as his long fingers tapped the sleeve of his robe in thought. "Has Miss Granger already lectured Mr. Potter on the dangers of such potions – which, I must add, are illegal in Quidditch – before he sent his little pet to ask?"

Neville frowned in genuine bafflement, shaking his head. "I don't understand."

"Tell Mr. Potter," Snape snorted derisively, returning to his vials, "that despite what rumors he may have heard, if a healthy individual consumes such a potion, it will  _not_ improve his ability to breathe during sports, but rather remove the entire mucous lining from his lungs, causing instant and very unpleasant death."

"It's not for Harry! It's for…it's for a friend of mine." Neville was pleading openly now, his pulse hammering with the very real fear that he might not be able to get it after all. "This person – he aspirated some water and now he's got pneumonia, but he can't go to hospital – it's complicated, and he's got broken ribs, so he can't cough, but he's choking to death, and I can't let him die!"

The black eyes held him for what seemed like forever beneath their cool, piercing gaze, then Snape finally stood, and though his heart leapt into his throat with excitement as it looked like he was heading for the cupboards at the back of the classroom, it plunged again as he opened the door, gesturing firmly. "Get out, Mr. Longbottom. Another thirty points from Gryffindor for your ridiculous story, and if Potter does manage to get his hands on some, I will be telling your Head of House that you were dully warned."

Neville froze, his mouth dry, failure screaming on the cusp of panic, and he did the only thing he could think of, what he knew was his final gamble. He stood straight, head high, permitting all the strength and resolve of age into the eyes that met Snape's without flinching, then slowly, deliberately, never breaking eye contact, he lowered himself to his knees. "If you want honesty, Professor Snape, I'll give you honesty."

There was no bashfulness in his voice now, no re-assumed mumble; it was the voice of a man and a leader, even if it still belonged to a fifteen year-old boy, and the change was drastic enough that Snape stopped, dumbfounded as he went on. "It's not Polyjuice – I am exactly who I appear to be – but I'm coming back to myself from quite a few years in the future, because like I said, I  _need_  you. Riddle is gone, he was defeated exactly as Dumbledore knew he would be, but there's another evil that's just as dangerous, and the man whose life I'm trying to save is our only hope."

Snape's mouth had dropped open with shock at the transformation, and he hurried to continue, knowing that he'd already gone too far now to hold anything back, knowing that his only chance was to stun and prove himself alike with the bald truth. "I'm not mental, either. I know that you're in the Order of the Phoenix because you were in love with Lily Potter, that you hated me because you thought it should have been  _my_ parents who died and that Dumbledore has held that over you for years, that they're hiding Sirius Black at Grimmauld Place right now…I know because Harry's going to find out, and he's going to tell me when we're sorting out what happened the year Riddle was finally brought down, a year that hasn't even happened yet."

He stopped barely long enough to catch his breath, bowing lower still and looking up with no attempt to conceal how hard this was. "In that year, you and I won't be a student and teacher who don't like each other, we will be mortal enemies, and I swore…" His voice caught on the bitterness of his own words, almost cracking. "I  _swore_ that through all of it, you could never break me, never make me beg for mercy, but I'm on my knees in front of you now doing exactly that. I'm begging you to have mercy and give me what my friend needs, and if you want me to plead, to lick your boots, I will. Whatever you want, it's yours."

There was a long pause, the air crushingly laden, and his final plea came in a whisper, the last statement, the last possibility of breaking the icy armor with the one weakness he knew was the sharpest cut of all. "Just don't let him die because you think you know who it is or don't think it matters. You already made that mistake once."

OOO

His hand was shaking, so tight on the tiny, fragile flask that he was terrified of shattering it as he knelt on the cool grass of the Oweynagat. "Oh, please, Merlin, let this work…."

The Galleon was still shining, and he could see that Seamus' lips were an even darker purple, the bloodstains both fresh and brown-black flakes that had dried into little spatters of death. His skin was mottled blue-gray beneath the tattoos, his eyes closed, and there was no sign of response – no sign of life at all beyond the faint rumbles of useless breath that shuddered the broken chest – as he slid his fingers gently into the too-cool mouth, easing it open.

The potion was a bright, shimmering gold, smelling sharply of ginger and ammonia, and he closed his own eyes as he tipped it between the slack lips, poured it in to the last drop. Then he was shaking too hard, and the empty flask fell from his fingers and he rocked back on his heels, fists pressed hard to his mouth as he waited. Waited.

It seemed like hours, like years, and  _he_ was the one who couldn't breathe, who couldn't pull the precious air past a throat grown far too tight, but then something happened. A deep, sucking gasp, the sound of a man surfacing from the very bottom of the ocean, and his eyes flew open just in time to see Seamus sitting up, the color flooding back to his face as he winced, spitting harshly into the grass with the blue eyes bright, the lilting voice clear and strong. "Feckin' hell…that tastes like shite! Couldn't ya've put a bit o' sugar in it or somethin'?"

And then he was cocking his head, pushing the hair back from his eyes with a casual, painless toss as he stared in blank confusion, because Neville was laughing and crying at the same time, both harder than he could even remember, and maybe it was mental, but if this was what it felt like to lose your mind, it was worth it.

So worth it. It had all been worth it.


	23. Measure of a Man

"Ya know, I were hopin' the way those woods made me feel yesterday evenin' were just 'cause I were sick and the whole idea o' goin' further were just too much, but I'm breathin' fine and clear now, and they don't look no friendlier." Seamus frowned at the edge of the dimly shadowed forest as he rolled his blanket, cinching it tightly with a length of cord, and Neville sighed.

"I thought it was just some sixth sense telling me not to push you on." He ground his boot into the last few embers of their fire, crushing them completely. "Think we're just getting paranoid, or do you suppose there's actually something in there darker than our own shadows?"

Seamus laughed, shrugging rather more casually than he had expected. "The Morrigan ain't exactly wasted no time on the first two trials. Me, feck yes I'm paranoid, but I'm also true hopin' that's our third trial in there. Get it over and get to business, ya know? And the Wound to the Mind? Ah, been close enough to mad meself I cain't even say I've not been already."

"Don't underestimate it!" Neville cautioned harshly. "We've made that mistake, and I didn't exactly like the results."

"Ain't underestimatin' nothin'," the smile had vanished, and although he didn't seem frightened, his voice was indeed completely reasoned. "But once ya've been to – or I'd be willin' say even over – the edge o' the abyss and back, ya know there can  _be_  a comin' back at least."

"Then…" Neville wasn't quite willing to look at his friend as he packed the last of Phoenix's bags. "You're saying you really were out of your mind for a while there? I'll be honest, I was never entirely sure. You'd seem okay, and then…."

"What's mad, that's the question?" He reached down, pulling the wolf's-head knife from his boot and turning it contemplatively in the morning sun. "If ya mean were there somethin' actual queer with me head, like folk what hear voices or think they're a stalk o' celery or got them bipolars or whatnot, nay, I've always been sane's anyone. But if it means losin' all track o' every shred o' morals or identity ya ever had, if it means that you're livin' by some set o' rules don't exist to none outside yourself, if it means ya ain't what no normal man would call right nor rational, if it means damn near not even bein'  _human_ no more 'cause ya gone so far, then aye, I were mad's a March hare."

The steady acceptance in his statement was distinctly unsettling, and Neville tried not to visibly squirm, knowing that it was a difference in personality more than anything else that made it so. Seamus didn't seem to have the slightest qualms about admitting such things, but for him, it would have been something so private and even shameful he might never have confessed it to anyone, the way he still held silent many of his darkest thoughts during his final year at Hogwarts. He wasn't sure if this brazen forthrightness was something he envied or disliked about his friend, and he settled for a noncommittal smile. "I'm glad you've come to some kind of peace about it."

"What's there for peace about?" The blue knotwork on Seamus' brow creased in confusion. "It were. Peace, no peace, don't change shite, do it? Sure's hell don't change what I did."

"Do you…" Neville hesitated, not wanting to pry, but he supposed it was an important enough question of morality. "Do you regret killing those people, then? Would you change it if you could?"

"Regret how I did it," came the instant reply. "Didn't do no good for stoppin' him in the end, and doin' it outside the law like that lead me down a road t'put a lot o' dear friends dead at me feet I won't never be able forgive meself for, but I same can't say I regret wipin' one o' them scum from the earth. No choirboys, they weren't."

"Ulster certainly wasn't," Neville agreed, tightening the intricate straps of Ascalon's carriage. "So, you agree the final task's waiting for us in there?"

"Like's not." The knife was returned to his boot, and Seamus took a deep breath, reveling obviously in the painless ease of it as he slung the quiver across his back. "Reckon we'd best be ready for anythin'. There may be no proper dark creatures left in the Oweynagat, but that don't mean shite. The Morrigan were able to conjure those darlin' puppies what met us in their hall, and there's plenty o' 'Light' or 'Grey' things what ain't no fun t'meet."

"Look at us," Neville smiled grimly. "I'd say for 'good guys,' you and I have certainly ruined a few people's days."

"That we have," the other man's grin was brilliant but a little frightening, his eyes sparking with a dangerous thrill. "I'd say we can take whatever they throw at us, ya know? Provided, that is, ya know how t'actual  _use_ all them pretty things ya tote 'round."

He drew Ascalon, tossing it lightly from one hand to the other in reply, his own eyes dancing to the challenge. "Care to try me, Finnigan?"

"Ah, another day." There seemed to be a genuine wistfulness in the postponement as Seamus caressed the bronze hilt of his own sword. "For now, lets mount up and have at it, shall we?"

Neville returned Ascalon to her sheath, putting two leather-clad fingers in his mouth to emit a piercing whistle that brought Phoenix trotting immediately over. He braced himself firmly, taking a deep breath and planting both hands on the saddle as he tucked one foot securely in the stirrup. It was no longer necessary to have the destrier kneel for him if he was in anything less than full plate, but the strength and precision to put a combined two hundred and sixty pounds of man and metal onto the back of an animal that stood nearly seven feet at the shoulder was enough to elicit a gasp of effort, and once he was mounted, he cast a disdainful glare at his friend's mocking smile. "If we get through this," he warned, "I'm putting you in my gear and see if you can  _stand_."

"Nah, Fearless Leader," Seamus made no attempt to hide that he was blatantly showing off as he fisted one hand in Capall's long mane and vaulted lightly up. "Sparkly silver dresses aren't me cuppa. But, ya know, everyone's entitled…."

"Why, just  _why?"_ Neville rolled his eyes dramatically as he gathered up the reins, looking up beseechingly at the already-scorching summerlike sun. "What did I do to get paired up with a homicidal smart-arse to save the world?"

"I don't know," Seamus winked, "but it musta been brilliant, aye? Besides, no one's askin' ya to save the world…all ya've got do is gimme a couple o' daisies while I save Ireland."

"And once again," the words were muttered just barely audibly as they took to the road again, riding only a few moments before they had passed under the reaching branches of the first trees. "He proves my point…."

OOO

The night before, the forest had been alive with little noises, the rustles of animals, the chirps and flutters of birds, even the breeze through the leaves, but now it was silent. He would have thought that the muggy air had swallowed everything, that he'd maybe even been struck deaf, but Neville could still hear every breath he drew, the thin jingle of mail, the hiss of metal on metal and the tiny creaks of leather, the crunching of hooves in the leaves.

Nor were the horses immune from the eerie, unnatural calm. Whether they sensed it themselves or were just responding to the anxiety that slid cool trickles of sweat down his back and crossed the already-intricate patterns on Seamus' face with new lines of worry, their nostrils were flared, necks arched and tails carried high as he kept a tight grip on the reins, not relishing the idea of dealing with three quarters of a ton of animal panic if Phoenix were to suddenly shy. He leaned forward a bit, gripping tighter with his thighs while he shifted the reins to one hand, freeing the other to run soothingly over the bunched muscles of Phoenix's neck. "Shhhh…we must lack not now for courage, my friend. Prithee keep thyself keen and fear thee not the darkness."

A nervous chuckle tittered from his companion, and Neville looked up to see to his surprise that Seamus had abandoned his reins entirely, guiding Capall with his legs alone as he held his bow notched low across one thigh. "I ain't the only one don't talk to me horse in English, then?"

"Yeah, well, it's still English," Neville corrected, "but it's how he was trained. He'll still respond if I just  _talk_ to him, but I'm trying to comfort him, you know?"

"Don't like this none meself," Seamus whispered, his eyes glinting in the spattered light through the canopy as they darted from tree to tree. "We're losin' the road."

Sure enough, the track that had once been so clear and wide was little more than a vague slash now, and Neville unfastened the lance mounted along Phoenix's long flank on the side of the saddle, reaching out with the sharp point to gash a bright streak of pale wood into the trunk of a nearby tree. "We make our own road then. Just enough that we don't get lost. We can't see the sun in here, and Kaye told me stories of people who've died not half a mile from civilization because they've gotten so turned around."

"Just be ready if ya need t'use that for more than leavin' ourselves notes."

"Oh, I will," He assured. "I just…oh, that's not good."

Everywhere they looked, the trees had become identical; tall, gnarled oaks with the exact same reaching branches and knotted roots, but also the exact same cut across the bark that Neville had made on the first. The path had vanished completely, and he tugged back, pivoting Phoenix slowly as he saw that they were surrounded by the indistinguishable trees which also seemed to have become closer together. No, they were  _moving_ closer together, and he froze in horror as the shadow of Druim Cett chilled through his blood.

"Seamus, get the horses out  _now_  before they're trapped with us! This isn't their test!" Even as he shouted the command, he was dropping to the ground himself, using Ascalon to slash the straps that held Phoenix's packs before striking the destrier hard on the flank with the flat of the blade and sending him galloping away. The trees skinned the broad gray sides, so narrow that there would have been no way to make it without tearing a rider's legs off, and for a split second he thought it was too late, but then Phoenix gathered himself and shoved through, Capall passing a heartbeat later in a flash of frantic copper.

It wasn't just the living forest that mirrored their last, nightmarish conflict, either. Now that they were trapped, back to back within this unnatural arena, the silence that had strung their nerves so tightly was gone. In its place came a low, eerie chanting, and Seamus' bow sang its answer at once, lofting an arrow into the canopy at a target Neville couldn't even see, but it struck true, and a body crashed heavily through the branches, landing almost directly at their feet.

The arrow had wounded it, maddened it, but it was still alive, and it had scrambled to its feet, roaring in pain and fury before Ascalon sliced across the creature's throat, the razor-sharp blade almost completely severing the misshapen head. At first glance, it seemed, impossibly, like another Fomorian, but it lacked the dark coat of hair, rather resembling an amalgam of every demonic being he had ever conceived; long-fanged and claw-handed, horned and even bat-winged, with skin like twisted, pitted red leather. He spared a glance at Seamus, who had already notched a second arrow and was searching the canopy for a glimpse of his next target. "What  _is_ this?!"

"I don't know!" he admitted. "Looks like…feck me, looks like a buncha things, it do, but I ain't askin' no pedigree, 'cause he ain't alone, and I don't know how long they're plannin' on stayin' up there!"

The answer was not long at all. As if they had been awaiting a proper introduction, the creatures descended, and the luxury of worrying what they were was instantly lost in the mad, shrieking assault. They didn't just lunge at them on foot, they swooped down from above as well, harpies tormenting the self-damned who had once been schoolboy friends and were now warriors, blades flashing and arrows flying, shields protecting each other as much as themselves in a flawlessly unrehearsed dance of desperate violence.

It seemed impossible that only two could stand against such an onslaught, and he couldn't allow himself to stop moving for an instant, but it didn't lessen the expected shock when he heard Seamus cry out behind him in obvious pain. "How bad?!" he yelled above the melee, and it was to a sigh of relief that the answer came without hesitation, if paced between blows.

"Feckin' snapped me bowstring…caught me wrist but I'm fine…we're all hand t'hand now, we are!"

"Join the party, mate!" Neville hissed through gritted teeth. Ascalon was buried to the hilt in the guts of one of the things, and another took the chance before he could rip it free of the suction, streaking in behind and around his shield to sink its teeth hard into his arm. He felt the fangs catch and break on the mail, and he jerked his elbow up, smashing it into the hideous face before twisting the shield to slam it away completely.

He had been afraid for Seamus in the leather armor and lighter weapons that seemed almost for show next to his own, but he could see now how dangerously wrong he'd been. Far from being useless in real combat, he had been granted a window into history in the depths of this madness, to the Celtic soldiers who had taken on the Roman legions and so often won. The leather blunted tooth and claw just as surely as steel, and he didn't  _need_ anything heavier, because he simply wasn't there to take the hits. He was preternaturally fast, shouting his own battle-cries above the animal wails as the short bronze sword stabbed and thrust, the round shield used as a bludgeoning weapon as much as for protection. Something flashed, blood gushed from beneath, and Neville had a brief glimpse of the knife clutched along with the strap, a cruel surprise for any who evaded the edge of the disc itself.

The bodies should have been piling at their feet, they had slaughtered dozens, he was sure of it, but as soon as they looked away, the corpses vanished, as if the forest were swallowing her own offal to spit back at them in new fury. He was fighting to the very extremity of his skill, but the actions were still no longer desperate improvisation but drilled and trained, and he discovered that there was yet enough sense remaining that it  _bothered_  him, and he shook his head even as Ascalon swung relentlessly.

"This isn't right!" he called. "Why are these things attacking us?!"

"Maybe they're havin' an off day!" Seamus shouted back sarcastically. "Why doncha ask  _them_?"

"This shouldn't be…a test…of our combat skills!" Neville pressed. "I think they're distracting us…wearing us down…for something –"

But he never finished, because he was right.

Like mist before the rising sun, the maddened hoards vanished, sailing up into the canopy again or melting into the earth itself, and Neville swallowed hard, discovering just how hard he was breathing, how loud his heart was pounding in his ears in the few seconds before the trees parted again, and he saw now what they were truly facing.

She was both beautiful and utterly terrifying, her golden hair flying wildly in the wind that had picked up out of nowhere, her lithe limbs sheeted in gore and her elaborate armor scorched and stained, but she was unwounded, unbowed, and her sapphire eyes burned as she regarded the two soldiers with all the hunger of bloodlust incarnate. It was Nemain herself, and the arrow notched in her bow was coalesced from blood, her ripe mouth twisted to a cry of inarticulate battle-frenzy.

The scarlet arrow burst from the bow, but Seamus had already moved, and Neville jerked back a step involuntarily, astonished as his friend snatched it from the air with his bare hand, shattering it into nothing more than a spray of hot, sticky droplets. And there was nothing he could do but watch, watch in awe and terror mixed to a heady intoxication of adrenaline, because this was no combat, no magic Kaye had ever prepared him for, the wild heart of the Celtic warrior spirit unleashed in all its raw, unfettered glory.

Lightning tore the air with the sharp stink of ozone as Seamus thrust his hands at her, but she took it with barely a shiver, and the leaves rose into red-eyed hounds that were barely cut down by the bronze sword. He yanked it from the dissolving corpses, then threw it into the air, and it was a falcon, plummeting down to tear at her eyes, but the falcon became flame, turned back on its master, and Seamus screamed as it blasted around the edges of his shield, blistering his face. But already he had scooped up Neville's lance from the dirt, and he swept her feet from under her in a single, graceful stroke. Nemain should have gone down, but she never really fell, twisting in midair, and Neville could stand it no more.

He ran forward, Ascalon held high and ready, reaching deep to his own magic, and it was with a crazed thrill that he saw the trees bow to his unspoken command. The branches bent, extended, and the wooden fingers had clasped the Goddess unshakably by the arms, lifting her, entrapping and enfolding and giving Seamus time to dive for the sword that had reformed from the flames, cocking his arm back to hurl it home in her exposed breast.

But her eyes turned from Seamus to Neville, and the scream of fury became a laugh became a roar as her head threw back and began to twist, her mouth opening wider and wider still, teeth extending, eyes narrowing to slits. The branches holding her burst apart in a cloud of splinters, and iron scales were replacing giltwork, graceful arms thickening, and there were wings erupting where the golden hair had flowed, knees bending as her legs gathered to muscled haunches, and she was swelling, expanding, rivaling the trees themselves as maiden became monster.

"Feckin' hell…" Seamus' voice was a rasp of terror and exertion, but his blue eyes were huge, his expression torn between fear and revelation as he stared not at Neville, but Ascalon herself. "Its…it's  _yours_! Your  _sword!_ Neville, it's the feckin'  _dragon!"_

"I know!" Neville tried to push his friend aside, to position himself between the other man and the burgeoning dragon, but Seamus grabbed his arm stubbornly, refusing to be moved as completely as if he had taken root.

"That ain't no Celtic dragon!" he insisted furiously. "Look at your feckin' sword! It's the same bloody thing!"

"Then get out of my way and let me take it!" He gathered all his strength, shoving hard now with the shield, and Seamus was knocked back just in time, because the few precious seconds the transformation had given them were over.

The dragon lumbered forward, letting out a deafening roar and a burst of flame that instantly transformed the canopy above him into a roiling roof of fire, but he held his ground, Ascalon throbbing in his grip like a living thing. This was the test, then, and even if it didn't make sense, it did in a way. They had both confronted the haunting ambush of Druim Cett, Seamus his warrior Goddess, and now it would be seen whether he was truly worthy to bear the sword of England, if he could wield it in the same trial that had carried its former master to fame.

He could feel his hair beginning to singe, the heat was nearly unbearable beneath the heavy armor, but the smell of scorching wool and pinpricks of greater heat along his back told him that it was doing its job of protecting him from the embers and burning twigs that fell around him like the devil's rain. Neville had no idea where Seamus was, but he couldn't afford to worry about that right now. The dragon's eyes were on him and him alone, and his were fixed in turn on the yellow slit-pupiled gaze, vaguely startled that there was no need to push back the fear that seemed to have stepped away of its own accord to leave him to this.

The heavy neck arched, swayed like a snake, and he had only an instant to drop to one knee, crouch behind the tall shield and plant it solidly in the earth as the inferno came for him in a living blowtorch. The flames licked around the edges of the shield, blackening the mail of his shoulder and searing away the cloth of the tabard mercifully too thankfully fast to actually catch, but the metal of the shield itself was glowing red, and he had to set his jaw, squeeze his eyes tight shut against the searing agony to his palm and forearm, because he could smell his flesh charring to the thin refuge, but if he let it drop, he knew he was finished.

At last the blazing onslaught ended, the dragon drew a breath, and he sprang to his feet, swinging the shield away, adrenaline pumping so wildly that he scarcely registered the pain, only an odd heaviness to his left arm where mail and shield and skin had fused. Ascalon was still bright and uncharred in his right hand, and he surged forward, ducking beneath the great head to slash for the vulnerable throat, but one vast wing snapped out of nowhere, knocking him off his feet completely, and he hit the ground hard, sucking desperately for air that was choking him on clouds of heavy black smoke.

And then Seamus was there again, standing in the flaming no man's land between Neville and the dragon, and the wind had been knocked out of him too hard to scream the protest that wanted to come at his friend's unbelievably futile and foolish courage. He didn't seem afraid at all, and as Neville watched in dumfounded disbelief, he raised his sword, looking for a moment as though he were about to cut his own heart out, but he shoved it beneath, not through the carapace, slashing it down to drop the armor at his feet in an empty, soot-stained shell. The bracers followed immediately, and at last he took hold of the tear the blade had left in the tunic itself, ripping it open as he fell to his knees, sword thrown aside, head tilted back, eyes closed with empty hands and bared breast unheeding to the continuous scorching rain that instantly scattered his skin in angry red patches.

"Trial o' the Mind!" His voice rang over the crackling fire louder and clearer than it should have, and the dragon paused, staring in what could almost have been amusement at this astonishing insect.

But Seamus was undaunted, and though he opened his eyes and stood again, he still made no effort to protect himself, barely even seeming to notice as his hair began to smoke and smolder. "We feared we'd be lost…ambushed…that they'd be monsters like Druim Cett…I've feared facin' a wizard with magic more than me own since the Diabhal Dubh near strangled me…and now you're what Neville down in his heart believes a knight's got to face. This trial's been whatever we've  _thought_ it'd be, and I'm feckin' finished!"

His hair had caught now, and his face was twisted in agony he was no longer able to hide, but he held his ground, forcing the words through the tightening notes of pain. "No more! Ain't I proven enough? Ya know me heart! Let me free me people! I brought this on us, I did, by thinkin' I knew best how t'stop that bastard, gimme me chance t'set…t'set it right…." The long blonde hair had become the fallen angel's cursed halo, and the last of his plea barely escaped before he could hold no longer.

Seamus collapsed to his knees, still refusing to fight against his own overwhelming pain, arms held out and stiff as he writhed, as he screamed, but Neville had recovered his breath now, and he tore his eyes away from the horrific sight, bracing his foot against the base of the shield to wrench it free from his own burned arm. It ripped away, still attached to a swath of roasted meat that he refused to believe was human or his, despite the pain that howled somewhere behind the shock that made the sweat run cold even in the midst of this furnace. Ascalon was the next to be cast to the ground, and he raised his head, addressing the dragon with all the strength he could muster.

"If he's wrong, then I go down with him. We do this together, or not at all! But he's not wrong, is he?" The smoke was acid in his lungs, and he coughed hard, cuffing his wrist against his mouth and tasting salt copper char from somewhere that didn't even matter, because he had to ignore the fear, ignore the despair that sobbed in the pit of his stomach that it was all lost. "I don't need to face a dragon to be a knight. I  _am_ , in every way that matters, and I'll finish your Quest to lead the Faye, but that's for  _you_ , not me. I've seen what I was, I know how far I've come. I'm already a hero, and so is he, even if we die right here."

There was a clap of thunder so loud that it sounded as though the very fabric of reality had burst apart, and the hiss of ten thousand kettles rose around him in a cloud of steam as a heavy, true rain opened upon the burning forest. It blocked out everything, so thick that he couldn't even see his own hands in front of him, but there was something more to it than mere water quenching the flames. It tasted sweeter than honey on his lips, soothed his burned skin like the most potent unguent, and even the fused and battered armor shimmered clean and whole again beneath. The pain faded from searing to moaning to a faint ache and sting to nothing at all, and as the steam was pounded into the leaves by the driving rain, he saw the Morrigan in her unified aspect again, standing dry amid the downpour.

"Collect your weapons," she said coolly, her smile almost maternal in its regal approval. "Your horses await ya on the edge o' the forest, and there ya shall find the city o' Gorias scarce an hour's ride beyond. Three wounds were put to ya, three wounds ya've taken, and three tests ya've passed. Go now to the caves below the Temple o' Danu, and when from there ya emerge, your Quest complete, the Faye shall be assembled for those proven more than worthy."


	24. Lead Us Not Into Temptation

"I'll say this for one, I don't mind the décor." Seamus arched one eyebrow at him as they rode into the courtyard of the temple, giving an exaggeratedly lascivious smile. "Ten years, ya know, and hell if I don't miss it…say whatcha will, there's worse things on a bloke's sex life than bein' a rebel legend. 'Course, I'm sure ya ain't even lookin'…married man ya were. Can't be so --" He cut himself off, the look on his face one of obvious remorse at having treaded so breezily onto the sensitive topic of Hannah. "Oh, feck, I'm sorry…didn't mean—"

"I know you didn't," Neville said gently. "It's okay. I'm not so fragile I can't take a joke sometimes…anyway, you're sadly mistaken about the institution of marriage, Mr. Finnigan." He allowed a smile of his own. "Table."

"Huh?"

"Two weeks before this whole thing began," Neville could feel himself blush with the confession, and he realized that he had never actually discussed the topic with another man since the youthful – and questionably honest – boasts in the Room of Requirement. "We, um…we kind of broke the kitchen table. And we were definitely married by then. It's pretty nice, really…but I'm not too blind to see that those definitely are too."

The Temple of Danu was nothing like he had pictured it, bearing no resemblance to either a lofty cathedral or columned Greek edifice, but rather a long, low hall in the middle of a lushly gardened courtyard. Everywhere he looked, plants were not just growing in astonishing abandon, but simultaneously laden with flowers and fruit, an open paean to fertility that was more than reflected in the architecture.

The walls of the hall were carved stone which at first glance seemed further depictions of twining plants, but a second look showed that the foliage was long, flowing hair, the graceful vines the curves and lines of nude and sumptuous women, the fruits and flowers their full breasts, parted lips, even the delicately depicted folds between spread legs that somehow seemed genuinely worshipful rather than the least obscene. At one end, the figures supported two crescent moons which formed the entrance, and the roof blended the building seamlessly into the surroundings, growing as thickly flowered as the gardens outside.

It should have been harder, he knew, to not just acknowledge the woman he had lost and still loved so dearly, but to speak openly about what they had shared, yet Neville felt no twinge of guilt or grief. That, he realized, would be almost impossible here. So rich was the prosperity around him that he felt better, more alive and content and  _right_ with himself and the world than he could remember, and as they tied their horses inside the gate, he couldn't restrain himself from the desire to expose himself to it more deeply still.

"This is a place of life," he explained hastily to Seamus' curious look as he began to unbuckle his pauldrons. "I don't want to go in there like a warrior…I'll still wear Ascalon, she's a gift, but I want the rest of this  _off!"_ He had no idea he could free himself from the armor so quickly, but in what seemed like no time at all he had stripped down to his undertunic and hose, conceding only to pull the tabard back on and re-fasten his carriage before giving in to the urge to fall to his knees and bury both bare hands to the wrists in the soft, dark loam.

"Ya feelin' all right, Fearless Leader?" Seamus asked nervously, and Neville laughed in reply, though he didn't look up.

"Oh, Merlin,  _yes!_ I've never...." There was no way to express it, and he couldn't care less what his companion thought as he flexed his fingers deeply, too enraptured by the powerful sensations coursing through his heart and body to even notice the low, hungry moan that slipped past his lips. It was amazing. Everything that had been cold and dark and hurting about the Diabhal Dubh's realm was perfectly reversed here, and he felt as if he would have been content to stay there forever, sucking deep of the life and comfort and health that sang so seductively through this soil. It was warmth and right, security and almost a kind of arousal, even….

Then someone had him by the shoulders, and he cried out in frustrated annoyance as his hands were yanked free and he was twisted around to stare directly into a pair of brilliant blue eyes. "Ya look bloody  _drunk_ , ya do!" Seamus announced bemusedly. "T'hell's gotten into…." Realization dawned as he looked from the muddied fingers to the flourishing garden and back again, and he struck the palm of his hand against his forehead with a sigh. "Oh, shite, 'course…if it could hurt ya t'be feelin' their pain, then comin' to the temple o' all that's growin'…."

The grip on his shoulders remained firm, but there was something gentler about it now, and Seamus' voice held a mixture of amusement and determination as he steered Neville unswervingly towards the entrance, ignoring the half-articulated protests. "No, c'mon. We're goin' in there, we get our business done with, and then if you're a very good lad, I'll let ya come play with the plants again."

It was a little better once they were inside, and Neville shook his head harshly, trying to dismiss the dizzying pleasure enough to focus any attention at all on the task at hand. He only vaguely remembered why they were there, did indeed feel rather drunk, and the disorientation was not eased by what awaited them inside.

Two long tables stretched the hall, creaking beneath the weight of a feast the likes of which put anything ever served at Hogwarts to shame; entire roast boars fighting for space beside wheels of cheese and overflowing baskets of steaming fresh bread, cauldrons of stews and teetering pyramids of fruits and vegetables threatening to spill into bowls of gravies, jugs of milk and mead, and platters of honey-glistened puddings. At the far end, a woman reclined on a low couch, a bowl of wine cupped in her hands as she smiled kindly at her visitors.

She was completely naked, her skin as smooth and white and rich as the finest cream, her figure almost too full-hipped and ample-breasted for her narrow waist, and it was nothing easy to tear his eyes up that body to her face and its surrounding cascade of dark brown hair, relieved to find that the sparkle playing in her doe-like eyes suggested she knew precisely the effect she had on men. There was no question that this was the Goddess herself, and Danu smiled lazily, "If here ya stand, my daughters have tested ya and found ya true, but I would have a moment with each o' ya private before takin' ya to what ya seek."

Beside him, he could hear Seamus let out a long, slow breath at this, and he couldn't hear precisely what he said, but the sentiment was echoed nonetheless. Kaye had warned him that there would be a temptation at the end of their Quest, but although the Goddess's charms were considerable and obvious, it was no curve of bosom or promising smile that worried him. It was the still-enticing call of her gardens, and if those sensations flowed from her person nearly as strongly, he could hardly promise not to crumble under their allure.

He was relieved when she motioned to Seamus first, calling to him in low, molten Gaelic. The acknowledgement of " _Bandia,"_ which he now knew to mean simply "Goddess," was barely muttered before he had obeyed, crossing the hall to kneel low at her feet, and she sighed appreciatively as she tucked two delicate fingers beneath his chin, lifting his face to hers. Neville couldn't follow what was said, but there was something indecently intimate about her tone, and she glanced up at him in a clear afterthought as she stood. "Take what ya will o' the food until we return. Rest and recover yourself, but leave not these walls, Son o' York."

"Yes, my lady," he promised, and then they were gone, Danu seeming to glide more than walk as she lead her willing servant through a nearly-hidden archway at the back of the hall. As soon as they had disappeared, Neville allowed himself to bite his lip in worry, profoundly concerned by the look of blind adoration and lust that had come over Seamus' face at her touch. If they were to come so far only to fail now…he sat down, sighing as he picked up a red, ripe apple and turned it contemplatively in his hands.

"Demons, disease, drowning, dragons…and we're going to lose it all to a pair of tits." He was hungrier than he had first realized, and with nothing else to do and having been extended the invitation quite directly, he let himself take a bite, enjoying the crisp, sweet flesh of the fruit without fear. The temptation wouldn't be as simple as food when they had brought plenty of provisions with them, and Danu wasn't exactly being subtle about where the real danger lay.

He nearly choked on his second bite as a fit of giggles seized him, and he barely managed to swallow, wiping his mouth on the sleeve of his tunic as he looked down at the contents of his hand. An apple. All the food on the table, and he had picked up a bloody  _apple._ "Well," he raised it as if in toast to the bacchanalian women on the walls, feeling his mouth turn up at one corner in a lopsided smile. "It was good enough to take down a prince of Troy and half the knights of Camelot…I guess we'll see if the Sluagh of Belfast fares any better, eh?"

OOO

There had been many possibilities he had been ready for when Seamus at last emerged from the darkened arch, but as had been the case so often already, the actuality of what happened had not been one of them. His friend's face was shockingly white, his hair sticking to his brow with sweat, and he was shaking so hard he could hardly walk, one hand clenched tight over his mouth in what was either a barely successful attempt not to be sick or a far less successful one to restrain the tears that poured thickly from the tightly closed eyes. He showed no sign of injury, even of any kind of physical struggle at all, but a new golden belt sat at his slim waist, a new sword hung by his side, and Neville felt a surge of triumph push against the worry that had consumed him at once.

He'd done it! The Sword of Findias, it had to be!

It made him feel rather guilty about the lack of confidence he'd shown in Seamus after everything they'd been through together, but the way he was acting, the way he didn't respond at all to the gentle, maternal touch of the Goddess against his back as she guided him to sit at the end of the table – it didn't fit with a man who'd just had to practice a bit of carnal restraint, no matter how appealing the subject.

It had been something else, something that was enough to make this strong warrior weep like a lost child, so devestated that he hadn't even bothered to announce his success in the task for which they'd risked and suffered so much, and even as Danu stood away from him, he only curled tighter, both hands to his face now as he sobbed from a broken-hearted core of misery that made Neville's blood run cold. The only time he'd ever heard anything like it had been when Ernie had found what he thought was the body of his wife and child, but Seamus had no one like that, unless…was it his mother?

That was it, it had to be, and he felt his heart go out to his friend, no longer caring whether he had been spared or excused or still managed to surmount the temptation itself in the face of what was such a crushing blow. Maybe it shouldn't have been a surprise, not with his identity known and the Diabhal Dubh given free reign for seventeen years, but it didn't matter whether it  _should_ have been, because it  _was_ , and he didn't even realize he had gotten up until he was kneeling by Seamus' side, one hand carefully on his knee in uncertainty of how much aid would be welcome or could be offered. "Seamus, oh, sweet Merlin, man, what happened? Are you…?"

"Leave him." Danu's voice brooked no argument, and his head snapped up, shocked to find all maternal affection having vanished from her attitude towards the broken man, even as she turned a smile on Neville that sent a deliriously shameful shiver cutting through the concern. "He succeeded, he is done, let him have his time alone. For now, Neville…." She reached out to cup his face as she had Seamus', and this time, he understood every word of the low, appreciative purr. "Tall, dark, and handsome…a literal knight in shinin' armor, and so virtuous it's enough to make a woman ill, it is. But we shall see…oh, yes, we shall see just how selfless ya really are."

He didn't know how to answer, or even if he should, but Danu's smile only widened as she beckoned him to follow. Neville obeyed, he knew he had little choice, but it was not without a worried glance back over his shoulder at the friend he was abandoning, wishing he could do something to help the obvious pain he wasn't even allowed to know the cause behind.

Was the same waiting for him as well? It didn't matter. He could only follow, through the archway and down the long, twisting stone stairs beyond, down far into the earth beneath the hall, until the passageway opened at last into an immense limestone cavern, the dangling stalactites themselves shining with an eerie green-gold phosphorescence across the glassine surface of a seemingly endless lake. Danu slipped all the way up to the edge of the water, then stopped at last, turning back to look at him with a coquettish smile, one hip cocked to display her extraordinary figure as her hand lightly skimmed her thigh.

She was gorgeous, the unearthly quality of her beauty only enhanced by the strange light, and he couldn't keep his gaze from caressing each curve, his fingertips from throbbing with the too-easily imagined touch of that soft skin, his lips from recalling the taste of a woman's mouth with an urgency that shocked him after it had seemed desire was something that belonged only to the distant past. Her eyes were filled with unspoken questions and offers alike, and Neville took a deep breath, forcing to mind all the worst unspeakable images of Druim Cett as he shook his head. "I'm sorry, I'm not going –"

"Do ya forget, boy, that I'm a Goddess?" Danu laughed, a soft, throaty sound as she tossed her long hair in regal amusement. "If I were wantin' ya in me bed, there'd be no mortal vow or vain restraint that would have ya otherwise. No, I don't consort with children."

Neville found himself at once relieved and oddly offended by her reassurance, and there was a part of him -- and not the part he had expected – that unbelievably wanted to argue her, to assert that he was more than man enough to be with her, but he pressed his lips together tightly, refusing to give in to the mad impulse. "Then why did you take me down here?" he asked instead. "What  _do_ you want from me?"

"I want nothin'  _from_ ya," she replied kindly. "I wish mere to offer ya a chance."

"A chance?"

"Ya've come a long way, Neville o' York," Danu purred, "but it weren't your dream t'be a knight, were it?" She had circled around behind him, and he felt paralyzed under her eyes, unable to resist or pull away as she trailed her fingers over the back of his neck, pushing aside his hair to brush her soft, warm lips against the sensitive hollow behind his ear. He heard himself gasp, nearly moan, and it was arousal, certainly, but something deeper as well, a seduction that went far beyond the body. "Tell me your heart's desire. What is it ya would want if there were no impossibles?"

" _Hannah_ …." The name breathed into the warm air of the cave as if into the candlelit shadows of the bedroom, longing and intimate, and he felt more than heard her smooth murmur of understanding against his ear.

"So cruel it were, so unfair…never would ya have seen a hair on her head harmed, would ya? But there were nothin' ya could do, not a finger ya could raise as she were ripped away…." Her body was pressed tight against his back now, fitting against him so perfectly they could have been made for one another as her arms slid around his waist, and he nodded bitterly, unable to stop but strangely unashamed by the tears that had begun to trail from beneath his closed eyes.

"I'd have done anything, oh, God, I'd have done –" The words choked off, the wound they opened still too sharp to continue, and he barely even noticed as her fingers opened his tabard and the undertunic beneath, her touch unweaving the cloth itself without cut or tear to spread it apart and lay her hands against the bare skin, to trace the outline of each muscle across his chest and stomach.

"All your strength, all your skill, all your magic, all your love meant not a thing, it didn't. Took her and damned her and broke her right before your eyes, and it were your own fault, weren't it?"

The garments were pushed from his shoulders completely, but he welcomed the feel of his skin against hers as he pulled her in closer still, not out of any lustful urge, but because she was the core of all that was good and whole, because life radiated from her a thousand times stronger than the plants of her gardens, and the sight of Hannah's violated body had never been so sharp even when it had been happening, and he would die and wither even as he saw her crumble again unless he anchored himself to something, anything. " _Yes_ ," he whispered jaggedly, "My fault! All my fault, I should never –"

"Called her there, asked her to stand in a fight she belonged in less than yourself, and how much were it really yours, besides? Ya ain't even Irish, are ya?" The understanding, the lack of accusation was almost too much to bear, and he felt the sob rip its way up from somewhere as deep as death itself. There were no words, there could be no words for the terrible seconds that kept repeating through his heart and mind and senses in a brutal loop, watching his own heart torn from beauty to wafting dust again and again.

Danu's lips found the dip of his collarbones, her tongue lapping the salt-bitter sweat like tears, her mouth moving hot against his flesh. "And what would ya do to take it back? To undo it all?"

"Anything! I'd –" He stopped, his hands tightening so hard in her hair that it must have hurt her, though she showed no sign of pain as he wept, the grief so much keener than the years gave it any right to be. "But there  _isn't!_ She's  _gone!"_

"Come, me poor boy…." She led him only a few steps to the edge of the pool, drawing him easily to his knees. "Look there, into the water, and see what could have been had ya taken one choice different, had ya decided to stop when first the Diabhal Dubh tried to kill ya. It shows ya what could have been…and what could be."

It was hard to make his eyes open, his vision was blurred thickly with tears at first, but they cleared as he blinked harshly, cuffing them away, and now he could see the surface of the water shining and rippling, his own reflection twisting away to show something else entirely. Something that yanked his breath away with the force of a slap, and he heard himself cry out in a kind of longing that was too raw to even be real.

It was Hannah. Alive and beautiful, but more than that, he saw himself as well, and they were at the cottage in Kent that they had so long planned to renovate for a summer home. It was done now, the dusty windows gleaming behind softly flowered curtains, the golden morning sunlight shining warmly on Hannah's face as she cut slices from a loaf of bread, and he could hear her humming to herself, one of the tuneless little songs that meant she was happy and content with her own thoughts.

He saw himself come up behind her, wrap her in his arms and push away the blonde waves to kiss her neck. She turned into his embrace, and he could see now that her belly was round and full, could feel their child kicking against his hands, and he knew somehow that it wasn't their first, that there were others still in bed, but this was their time, this glow of early morning when all was still and peaceful and they could touch and kiss and cherish one another without reservation, and he could whisper things into her ear that made her blush and swat at him, but her lovely green eyes were dark, her lips parted in a way that said she wasn't scandalized at all, promising no protest and giving none as he pressed her back against the counter, his hands slipping up to cup her ripe breasts, his mouth finding hers hot and eager….

His hand lashed the water, shattering the cruel idyll as he yanked back, twisting away with the cry of a wounded animal and jumping to his feet. His legs were shaking, his entire body trembling too hard to support him, and Neville made it only a few paces before he collapsed, clutching at his face as if trying to tear what he had just seen from his eyes. If he had been able to form words he would have demanded to know why, flung the foulest imprecations that she would make him see something like that, but she seemed to know, and there was no remorse in her voice as she knelt before him.

"I said I would give ya a choice." Danu pried his hands from his face, and he fell unwillingly silent as her dark eyes captured his. "Do ya want it, Neville? Do ya want what ya could have had?"

He nodded, words impossible, and her hand shimmered as she held it out, a small golden chalice appearing from thin air. "Take this, then," she whispered. "'Tis yours. All ya need do is dip it in the lake…one sip, and it's done. Back to your Hannah, to your life as it should have been, and never ya need look back or remember one day o' this pain." The Goddess allowed the prospect to hang in the air for a single, intoxicating moment, then raised one finger in caution. "But 'tis a choice true…drink, and it's yours, or ya may cast it aside. Throw it down, shatter it on the stone, and I will give to you the Horn o' Borabu and ya may finish your Quest and go on to your battle. Dead and cold and gone she will remain, but success will be yours, and victory certain."

The cup was warm as she pressed it into his trembling hand, and she leaned forward, cupping his face in her palm to brush away the tears with her thumb. He couldn't move, couldn't breathe, couldn't begin to wrap his mind around what was being asked of him, and it was so easy to lose himself instead in her mouth as she kissed him, the taste of her sweeter and richer and more maddening than his wildest imaginings had ever suggested. He  _wanted_ , he  _needed_ , and oh, but he didn't even know  _what_  when she finally pulled away, licking her lips with a smile that carried more than he could ever comprehend.

"'Tis yours," she repeated. "Your choice. Make it now, but know that it is only offered once. Drink o' your dreams or take your prize, it will be done."

Images of Hannah seemed to reflect against the golden sides of the chalice in his mind's eye; her smile, her laugh, the feel of her body, the sound of her voice sweet and clear and real again, no longer relegated to agonized memory forever tainted with the Leanashe's fatal bite. And he wouldn't even remember this, which was almost as tempting. Gone with her death would be every other image that had invaded his nightmares, waking and sleeping for a decade, and in saving her, wouldn't he be saving everyone else as well? Harry, Hermione, the Weasley siblings, Anthony, Justin, Zacharias….

Could it really be failing the Quest if he undid the reason it had to happen in the first place? Without really noticing he had moved, Neville discovered he was at the edge of the lake, and he dipped the cup beneath the surface, feeling the ice-cold chill against his fingers as he scooped it up. It was perfectly clear and smelled as sweet and pure as he could ever have wanted, no onorus task at all to drink, and so, so easy.

He lifted the rim to his mouth, but at the last moment he paused, frightened. There was, she had said, no going back.  _Lets see how selfless ya really are._

Did that mean he was wrong? Would he only be salvaging Hannah's life after all, the rest of them still condemned? As desperately as he wanted her back in his arms, if it meant almost every one of their comrades would still be lost, wouldn't that kind of guilt that their former leader had  _not_ been among their numbers be enough to taint the rest of his life?

Taking a deep breath, Neville forced himself to shove back the tears and the hunger, locking it away under the coldly practical armor that had served him better and more often than any mail. It was the soldier's calm, the Commander's hard-schooled ability to keep his head in the depths of hell, and he needed it as much in this warm, peaceful cave as he ever had. And for the same reason. To earn the right to be looked to first, a leader had to put his own desires last.

He lowered the chalice again, turning back to where Danu was waiting, lounging casually on the smooth stone floor of the cave. "What about everyone else?" Another thought occurred to him even as he said it, striking him with fresh guilt, and his frown deepened. "What about Seamus? What would happen to him if the Diabhal Dubh never rose?"

"Now that ain't what I offered ya." She clucked her tongue in quiet disapproval, motioning to the chalice. "This changes only the one choice."

"And what does  _that_ change?" He held out the cup, displaying the potent mouthful within. "If I drink this, what happens to everyone else?"

"Weasley and Granger would've been sent in your place," Danu informed him calmly. "Your army would never've been summoned, their lives'd been spared, and though the lad would still've died, still also the maiden would've made her stand, and the Diabhal Dubh would have risen again clear's he did until he found another equal sacrifice to undo what she had barred o' his power."

To save the others and still lose Ron and Hermione…it wasn't a perfect option, but certainly better than what had already occurred, and it wasn't as if he'd be  _sparing_  Ireland the dark reign if he  _didn't,_ nor his two friends their own horrible ends. "And Seamus would have a version of the Quest alone?" He asked carefully.

"Young Finnigan would've turned."

"I don't believe that!" Neville shook his head vehemantly, wondering suddenly if he could trust any of what she had promised to be true if she could look him in the eyes with such a blatant impossibility. "He'd  _never_ have joined the Diabhal Dubh, no matter what you change!"

"That is not what I said," Danu corrected him. "Without your comin' to remind him o' who he were before, his ties to the livin' world would not have near been strong enough t'hold him back from the edge o' the Gray, and he'd have become that which he sought, though less than he knew."

"What's that supposed to mean?'" He was aware that he was treading on an incredibly dangerous edge, that with not only his own fate but that of a man as dangerous as the Diabhal Dubh in the balance, the wrong choice, the question unasked could literally be the doom of millions. His eyes narrowed as he thought of the unknown offer Seamus himself had given up for the golden sword and its accompanying tears. "What about the choice  _he_ made? How would this affect that?"

"It wouldn't, not in the least," Danu stood now, crossing the gap between them to rest her head against his chest, her hands pressing warm against his back in deep, rhythmic kneading motions that made his head tip back, his eyes close in a moan of unwilling pleasure. "He'd take his road here and his road there, and 'tis not for ya to worry o'er somethin' that takes the mind o' an immortal t'grasp. Every choice is made and not and all possibles have been and only one can be, and what little matters it to ya if ya have what it is ya desire most? Nothin' changes who ya are."

As if they had a will of their own, his hands were tracing her body, clutching her close, and she smelled of spring flowers and summer grass, fall leaves and winter pine, and oh, it was so good to have a woman's body against him again, the rise and fall of her breasts against his chest, and he could have it again and forever. Her kisses lit and tingled every nerve as they fell against the scars on his palms, sucked each finger one by one into heat and wetness that he had missed so much more than he'd ever known. His breath was coming in gasps, but it wasn't the Goddess herself his body ached for, it was all that she was; the promise of a woman's love and all that meant in flesh and feeling.

The cup was still in one hand, the water still within it. Only a single sip.

 _Nothing changes who you are_. The words plucked at his memory, but they weren't whispered low in the sultry, exotic notes of a brogue, they were the smoother rhythms of the British southeast, Hannah's gentle voice, and he remembered another morning now. Not at a cottage that still truthfully lay in dusty disrepair, but in his childhood bedroom at Willow Creek, sitting together at the end of the bed with a letter freshly opened in his hands, the letter that had asked him to join the Aurors, and she had cried when she read it, but then she had kissed him, and it had been her mouth against his scars, the ones on his shoulders where Filch's whip had left its lifelong lesson of innocence lost.

_Nothing changes who you are. As long as they're out there, you'll never have peace, Neville, we both know that. You went mental for three weeks trying to catch that stupid mole, don't tell me you could forgive yourself if any of those monsters came out from underground to hurt a person after I've seen what carrots mean to you._

And he knew. Even if what he'd seen had been real, it didn't show everything. It didn't show that if the Diabhal Dubh really did still rise, it wouldn't matter if he was in a country cottage in Kent. Either he would go – and sooner or later he almost certainly would have, the D.A. equally certainly at his side – or everything he had seen was a lie. Maybe he would stay, maybe he would be a husband and father and leave the Aurors – which he would had to have done, because they wouldn't have ignored such a thing – but that peace would have been the snowy white bandages that hid the gory wreckage of Mandy's throat from the sensitive eyes of the public.

He was no virgin at hiding pain, he knew he could keep up the front, but what good was it to have children into a world where in seventeen years, or maybe less, the devil would break his chains to strike their homeland next? Where every day would be a façade? Where, if he was brutally honest with himself, he might very well even come to resent his own wife and children in the name of the strangers' fates that would come by owl in the morning paper?

Or was he merely justifying? Forcing himself to prove that those grapes were sour anyway? A man could drive himself mad like this, that alone was clear. He wanted to bury himself in Danu's body, secret the deadly choice in the curves of her flesh, murmer the decision away from mattering into her silken hair and sate this hunger in her eyes. It was easy, she made it so easy, and maybe what he needed to do was just let go and make the choice. Stop the spiral of unanswerable questions once and for all.

She was woman, she was everything that meant and always had to men in pain and pleasure, and though she was a Goddess, her body was real in every way that mattered. He lowered his mouth, drinking deep of everything he had lost and every possibility he had abandoned as his fingers released, letting the chalice fall to shatter into the razor shards of a thousand golden mornings.


	25. Once More Unto the Breach

Seamus was waiting for them when they emerged back through the archway, recovered to himself now and showing no visible signs of the breakdown that Neville now understood so well, even if the precise nature of the other man's choice remained a mystery. The blue eyes were narrowed in worry at first, but he let out a deep sigh of relief as he saw the gilded horn hanging beside Ascalon at his belt, and he smiled as he extended his hand. "Done it, then. Are ya ready to go?"

"Now?" Neville blinked in surprise, more startled than he had expected by the realization that the Quest was, in fact, over, that his world of ten years was about to be left behind for its inevitable culmination, but he took a deep breath, looking to Danu for confirmation. "Do we just…go, then? Don't we have to rally the Faye or –"

The Goddess shook her head, chuckling bemusedly. "They're yours now, boy. That horn ya hold will summon them forth whenever ya choose, but ya must  _lead_ , not merely call. When ya leave this sacred city, ya will know the way clear back to your own world, and though ya must pass first, ya do not pass alone."

He scarcely knew what to say to this, much less about what had happened in the caves below, and he shuffled his feet awkwardly, feeling very much the young boy he hadn't been for so long, but at last he collected himself, bowing deeply with one hand on the hilt of his sword. "Thank you, my lady."

"Go, then." Danu settled herself back onto the couch where she had first seen them, gesturing gracefully towards the entrance with one hand as she took a deep sip from the bowl of wine. "The Quest is finished…time has begun again, and you've little to waste."

The news was galvenizing, and he allowed only one second, quick bow and hasty thanks, Seamus following suit before they hurried out again into the bright sunlight. The call of the gardens was still heady, especially after the agony and darkness of the caves, but Neville forced himself to ignore it, and he had already reached the gate where Phoenix was tethered, already stripped off his carriage and tabard to replace his armor when he stopped, turning back towards the bounteous display.

"Oh, don't ya  _dare_!" Seamus exclaimed. "I know I said ya could play with the plants again, mate, but  _really –"_

"No…" Neville shook his head carelessly, waving off his friend's protests as he walked slowly back to the nearest cluster of flowers, deliberately seeing and feeling them with his heart more than his eyes or hands. It needed to be perfect; strong and resilient, yet beautiful, something fragrant and healing, nourishing and rich with symbolism, and he slipped through the tangled foliage easily, his footprints hardly marking the soft earth as his hands passed over each leaf and tendril, seeking, searching….

There. His fist closed over the rubied fruit, plucking it away and tucking it into his pouch alongside the old Galleon, and he smiled as he returned to where Seamus was still staring incredulously at him. "It's all right, I've got what I need. But our time is ticking…we only have until tonight to finalize our plans, check our armor, weapons, make sure everything's in proper order. How long would you say that gives us?"

"No time at all," Seamus replied, and he frowned, not understanding.

"The ritual doesn't begin until sunset."

"And what, Fearless Leader, would ya call that?" He waved his hand to the west, and Neville's mouth fell open as he saw that the sun was already low, the sky beginning to blush with color at the horizon. "Get your armor on, we'd best hurry."

"Right!" There was no time to wonder over how it had happened or why, over the details they wouldn't have a chance to check or confirm. They were meant to do this, and maybe it was better that they had to act at once, because it left no opportunity to doubt or get themselves worked up over the odds or what had happened last time. It would have to be left to faith, and that was surprisingly easy after all that they had been through.

Neville re-dressed quickly, slipping into the heavy mail coat and then tightening each strap of the plate, and he was soon ready; Ascalon and the horn alike at his side, his own bow and quiver at his back like Seamus' as he mounted Phoenix. Distantly, he noticed that the horses' packs were missing. They took nothing but their weapons with them now, and it seemed to underline the finality of it. Win or lose, this was it.

Without another word or a backwards glance, the two men nudged their mounts into a swift canter, and the streets of Gorias blurred past as they left the temple and its lush ease, hurrying on past the homes and marketplace, the pens of sheep and sparking forge until they came to the walls of the city itself. And there, just beyond the gate as Danu had promised, lay the way to their own world.

It was the same archway first Cliodna and then the Morrigan had presented them, the carved stone encircling a blazing inferno, but he knew somehow that this time, it wasn't simply a passage to oblivion. Still, the thick waves of heat and the crackling roar of the fire were intimidating to say the least, and he drew up on the reins as Phoenix balked, his eyes showing white and ears pinned as he pranced back nervously.

Neville looked to Seamus, who was struggling likewise with Capall, and his jaw set in determination as he drew his shoulders back. "You've got better eyes, Finnigan. I think I see something beyond the flames, but…."

"Aye!" Seamus shouted back hungrily. "A man with his arms raised, and I'm reckonin' I know who, same's ya do!" He hunched down low over Capall's neck, and his face was shining in a feral glee. "We'll have to take it at a go, then; jump it!"

He nodded a quick agreement, but he had already wheeled Phoenix around again, taking him all the way back to the city gates before facing the archway. His heels came down almost brutally, using the shock of the spurs to throw the destrier ahead in what was really a barely controlled panic. Neville kept his grip tight, pushing Phoenix faster and faster still, then at the last moment, as they had just began to cross the glowing stones, he rose in the saddle, squeezing with his knees and leaning low as they leapt, the pounding rhythm of hooves on the earth suspended into a breathless instant of flight.

The fire did not consume them. The throbbing waves of heat were gone the moment they jumped, and the flames tingled his skin with no greater intensity than the emerald tickle of travel by Floo, even as they twisted liquid orange and white-hot. Phoenix's huge hooves struck one of the logs piled into the bonfire, throwing it out in a maelstrom of sparks that soared high above the fire itself, and then they were through, and he pulled back hard to stop the headlong rush, because they were through and they were there.

Druim Cett.

He would never have recognized it if he hadn't been so completely sure of where they would return, because the forest was gone, cut down long ago and replaced by a dark testimony to one man's mad ego and self-elevation to Godhood even as he claimed the power of other cruel and more ancient Gods. A stone platform, tall and elaborately carved, stood as the circle now, the altar and fire-pit with Bran's Cauldron at the center, while another, slightly lower ringed platform was provided for the white-robed acolytes, and below this, an arena-like pit for the masses.

Neville registered that the acolytes were greater in number now, heard the shocked gasps and screams of the crowd at their appearance, could even see the dark swarm of the army beyond that, but his attention was held by a mere three figures at the center of it all and only paces away. A girl, dead-eyed and passive, heaped at the foot of the altar in a crumple of unwanted limbs. A boy, the living image of his father, stripped and painted, gagged and bound over the heartless stone, the only blood that stained it so far the few trickles at his wrists and ankles where he fought against the restraints.

And a man who was more truly beast, tall and black-robed with that same silver mask, that same grey beard, the same knife upraised as he turned slowly, a smile on his lips that suggested no interruption greater than a buzzing fly from the two armored warriors on horseback that had just burst from his bonfire. The cold eyes flicked over them a moment, then he returned to his task, but the knife had barely begun its fall when the Diabhal Dubh let out a cry of shock and pain, dropping the blade and doubling over to cradle a hand that was now pierced through by an arrow with snow-white fletchings.

The collective intake of breath was like the water being sucked from a cove ahead of a tidal wave, but the Diabhal Dubh recovered almost instantly. Grabbing the arrow in his right hand, he pulled it free, casting it disdainfully into the fire as he raised the left, the wound melting easily away. The smirk on his lips had deepened, and his voice rang under magical amplification throughout the hollow as he sneered at them.

"Back, ya are, then, and thinkin' to be a trouble to me once again…the boy who would be the Sluagh and his pet Brit." The Diabhal Dubh laughed, the sound like the rumble of a winter storm. "But you're an answer to prayer! Now everyone will see where the power truly lies, and 'tis not in your little gnat-bite arrows, boy!"

"No, it's not." Neville was amazed to find there wasn't the slightest prickle of fear as he dismounted, his hand slipping into the pouch on his belt, and he didn't even need to look back to know that Seamus would be upholding his part of their plans as he crossed the platform to stand only inches from the Diabhal Dubh. "If its power you want, oh, I can give you power."

"How?" The dark wizard asked mockingly. "Ya think your sword, then? Lovely bit o' work, I'll give ya that, but draw it and your own heart'll be its sheath."

Neville didn't answer, hardly even heard the words at all. His body still remained on the platform, but his spirit was gone, and his hands moved without him, drawing Ascalon to plunge not into the black folds of the robes over the Diabhal Dubh's chest, but into the stone itself, and it cracked apart like glass under the blow. A chasm opened, splitting it wholly apart to gape between him and his enemy, the sword buried to her dragon-winged hilt as he released it and dropped to his knees.

The thing he had taken from Danu's garden was nothing more than a rose hip, but it glowed like a living coal as he dropped it into the rent he had created in the stone, then sealed it again with a pass of his hands. The sword was trapped now, he couldn't possibly free and ready his bow in the time it would take the Diabhal Dubh to move on him, but it didn't matter. He didn't need those things, didn't want them, even.

They were the tools of death, and right now, he was a tool of life. He had done all he could do, he had planted the seed, and the rest would be his no more than the ocean belonged to an inch of riverbed.

He could see them. Neville's eyes were closed, but he could see them all as perfectly as if they stood at his side beneath the brightest summer sun. Hannah, Harry, Ron, Hermione, Ginny, every one of the D.A. who had fallen here, even Dooley and Maher and their men who had put aside their own hatreds to combat the greater evil that threatened the land they loved. They were there beside him, alive and well, and he could feel their strength given to him, the power of their faith, their love, their courage and determination singing in his hands, coursing through his blood richer and deeper and more than he ever had been or could be alone.

And beyond them, the Sidhe, living and vital spirits of nature that he had won to his allegiance through blood and tears, the taste of Danu herself still on his lips, and there was no darkness that could hold against such light. He was nothing and he was everything, soaring beyond himself to  _become_  the sunlight broken over withered land. It gathered, built, and his arms flew wide, his back arched and face flung to the sky and he was the cloud that bore the quenching rain, the soft winds to caress the broken branches as he reached out and beyond the rose that sprang from solid stone, beyond the green leaves and bursting scarlet flowers to the torn forests of Druim Cett and so much more than he'd ever guessed, to all of Ireland that welcomed him in against her pain and blight.

The darkness bore no chance.

At every corner of the extremity he had become, he could feel it. Streams and rivers bursting their shrouds of ice. Waterfalls casting off their jagged chains to roar with strength anew. Dank fogs stripped away by warm winds replacing frigid gales. Skeletal trees throbbing with the life-blood sap, erupting into lush green buds and clouds of blossom. Tender grass breaking caked earth.

It was the triumph of spring over winter, the simple miracle that had occurred endlessly from the beginning of time, the miracle of every tiny seed. It could be hurt, could be bent, but never really broken, it had been there all along waiting for the catalyst of hope, and what else had they all been if not the hope that evil was always worth opposing, that there was never a cost too high for what was right, and their blood had not been shed in vain as it served to nourish this first strike of victory.

He could feel himself beginning to pull back now, not abandoning it, but merely leaving it to its own reawakened power as he became  _Neville_  again, one man in all his limits and potential alike. Slowly, he opened his eyes, getting to his feet and freeing his sword as if waking from a dream, but a slow smile spead across his face as he saw that it had been no dream.

The sun was no longer dying on the horizon behind steel-gray overcast, but shone hot and bright overhead with noonday brilliance, and his single rose now blanketed the platform in thriving green, the briared stems forming shield and cage that enclosed the Smith children in safety from their would-be tormentor. Saplings stretched their pale green arms towards the sky all over the clearing, and beyond, the forests and fields were richly verdant, the only sign of the long and callous winter a handful of shrinking white patches and icicles weeping themselves away in rapid, sparkling streams.

"Impressive." The Diabhal Dubh inclined his head in a dueler's gracious acknowledgement, but there was no air of defeat in his tone. "But your parlor tricks do not change that I have an army while ya stand alone. Even your friend has seen the futility o' it and abandoned ya."

"He's not abandoned!" Seamus had taken his distraction, and he was at the base of the platform now, sitting tall and proud on Capall's copper back as he held the Sword of Findias high above his head to let the light dazzle the golden blade. He looked barely mortal, every bit the living legend he had once tried to craft himself into through a far darker path, and his eyes seemed almost lit again with an inner glow as he turned to the assembled crowd.

"Who are ya?!" he demanded, his voice ringing grandly through the stunned silence. "I ask ya now,  _who are ya?_ Because I know who I am! I am Irish, and that means I am no man's slave! It means that I will die before I'll bow, that I'll hang before I'll crawl, that I may not agree with me neighbor, but damned if I'll let him turn me heart, that I've seen the darkest and coldest parts o' meself and me fellow man, that I've starved and suffered, fought and bled, but proud I still am and proud I ever will be! Call me a bloody Mick or Bog-Paddy and I'll claim it even as I make your children's children regret it, and when I call meself your friend, you'd never pray a deeper vow!

"I know who I am! Ask yourself: who are ya? Your choice, your time is now t'answer!"

He took a deep breath, rearing Capall to face the Diabhal Dubh, and though he no longer shouted, there was no less intensity to his words, and if anything, they bit the spring air keener than anything yet. "I am Seamus Finnigan. I have made me choice. I choose to belong to the livin', and I choose to fight.  _Go saora Dia Eire!_ "

There was a single breath of perfect silence, then everything seemed to happen at once. The crowd emitted a roar like the breaking of an avalanche, and at the same instant, Neville lifted the Horn of Borabu to his lips, and Bran's Cauldron burst apart in ten thousand pieces of ancient, fragile stone as the army of the Faye was summoned forth.

They came by the hundreds, pouring through the flames in a river of blazing armor and battle cries lifted to the heavens in a searing promise of death and victory equally delivered. The Sidhe were first, all the incarnate might of nature unleashed, but on their heels were the graceful Selkie and the giant Fir Bolog, the monstrous half-dog Dobhar-Chu, the yellow-faced Far Darrig, and all the multitudes of the Tuatha de Danann returned after so long to the world of men to face their ancient enemies.

At the same moment, Seamus raised his free hand, a long, wicked blackthorn club forming from thin air as he brandished it towards the mob that was surging forward to surround him now, hollow-cheeked faces and frail limbs reaching as if for the very essence of hope itself. "Arm yourselves!" He shouted, and as he flung the shillelagh into the air, it split and multiplied, falling into a hundred eager hands. "Pass them now, there's as many as there be willin' hands t'bear against him!"

It was not a moment too soon, because the roar of the onlookers had now been matched by another, darker heave from the Diabhal Dubh's armies beyond, and the farthest ranks were already struggling, caught up in a pitched and bitter battle of raw desperation and hate unleashed against the ranks of hell. It should have been a slaughter, and already the screams of the wounded and dying tore above the melee, but they were being relieved by their armed neighbors, and some had already taken up the blades of the monsters who had been dragged down by sheer weight of numbers. It was madness, no pretense of being anything more than the bloody riot it was, but Neville was barely aware of it, nor even of the Faye still erupting onto the platform behind him.

Neville had eyes only for the Diabhal Dubh, and the madman's gaze bore no levity now. Though he had underestimated them before, it was clear that he knew now his situation was dire, and he drew his gnarled wand from within his sleeve with deadly calm determination. "Ya fool!" He spat. "This ain't your land, why would ya choose to die here?!"

"It's not my land," he agreed coolly, and though a part of him stared in trepidation at the wand, wishing he had his own again, he held his ground, taking the shield from his back and clutching Ascalon firmly in his right hand as they began to circle one another. "But you made this my fight when you hurt my friends. When you killed my wife."

"You're handsome enough…I fancy the beard suits ya, it does, though the rest might be a touch old-fashioned." There was something terribly reasonable about his tone, and even in his dark ritual finery, he suddenly seemed like nothing so much as someone's kindly uncle arguing for mercy in some back alley accidentally wandered into. "And you're still young…surely there'd be other women for ya. Why throw your life away for one silly little girl and a handful o' school chums who were too weak to live?"

"If you could understand," Neville replied evenly, savoring the chance at the confrontation he had imagined for so long, "you'd be closer to human than I think you've ever been. People don't turn into monsters like you, Diabhal Dubh, they're born that way, born without a heart as surely as some people are born blind or deaf. You were blighted seed, and there's only one thing to be done with that."

Ascalon swung down, a merciless, powerful stroke that could have cut a man in half, but the twisted wand flared, and he barely spun in time to catch the spell against his shield, the sword itself repelled. It was unlike any duel he had ever faced before, but there was no time to fear or doubt. The Diabhal Dubh was more skilled than any warrior - wizard or mortal - he had ever truly combated, and Neville found himself instantly on the defensive, pressed to the edge of his reflexes and agility just to duck and catch the curses that flew and ricocheted to blast the platform around them into charred and smoking rubble.

There was no chance to draw near enough to strike with Ascalon again, so he lashed out with his own magic, raising the briars to tear at his enemy's eyes, and as the Diabhal Dubh screamed and ripped away the jagged stems, he moved. Ascalon slashed against and through the dark wizard's defenses, and for a moment, as the blade bit deep into the dark robes, he thought the victory was his.

But the masked face turned up to his, and it wasn't the shock of a mortal wound reflected there. Instead it was a laughing mockery, and Neville saw with a shiver that there was no blood on the blade as he drew it back.

He truly had taken no chances this time. The black robes were cast back and away, and Neville gagged, stumbling back against his will as he fought the sudden and awful urge to be sick. Like Seamus, he was armored in the ancient Celtic fashion, but the overlapping leaves of his leather carapace were tanned from human skin. He had drawn on the terrible magic of the fallen foe, and it was with tears and rage choking his throat that he recognized Harry's lightning scar and Jimmy's mangled cheek, red fists and tricolor flags, the dated monograms of the D.A. and Charlie's graceful dragons, even the delicate birthmark from Hannah's thigh that her mother had called a fairy's kiss.

The Diabhal Dubh had not been harmed, because Ascalon would not penetrate the flesh of those her bearer loved.

A scream of something more than rage crawled up from the depths of his grief to lunge again, but the instant of horrified paralysis had cost him. The wand flared again, and there was a sudden, blinding cloud of smoke, a flash, a crack, and when Neville rushed in, so far beyond caring for his own safety, the cry of hatred turned to one of sheer frustration. The Diabhal Dubh was gone.

For a few seconds he stood there, shouting incoherently for the Diabhal Dubh to come back, to show himself,  _anything_ , but at last he shook his head, forcing himself back to something resembling sanity in the clamor of the battle that was much larger than one man. Impatiently, he batted away the remains of the smoke with his shield, eyes scanning over the field both for any sign of the gray head and silver mask and for what had been happening while he had been wrapped in his private duel.

The battle in the pit below was raging more fiercely than ever. The Tuatha de Danann had circled around to flank the army of demons, harrying them from both sides, but the worst of it was still where the dark forces met the human mob to the forefront, and there the battle was far more perilous. Even armed, the would-be witnesses were still starved and long beaten-down, and only their frantic fervor kept it from being an utter massacre as blades flashed and bludgeons clattered against metal and bone, blood spurting into the air and soaking the ground red at their feet.

Neville wasted no more time, sprinting to where an elm Sidhe held Phoenix's head and vaulting up into the saddle more easily than should have been possible, adrenaline offering no chance for hesitation as he spurred the destrier off the edge of the platform and down into the storm in a single, powerful leap. It was like pushing against the current of a rampant river to force his way to the front lines, but Phoenix was born and bred for just such primeval warfare, and there was no question of friend or foe as the horse's teeth and hooves crashed against monstrous bodies as surely as his rider's blade.

They were close enough to the edge of the clearing that some of the old forest survived, and Neville used Ascalon herself as a wand, channeling his magic along the sword as he thrust it towards the trees, both old and new. Last time they had been the Diabhal Dubh's mindless assassins, but they were his now to command, and he turned them against the demons, hearing his own mad crow of triumph as the limbs of an alder bent to lift one of the cadaver-faced Leanashe from the field and tear her apart in a fatal cascade of her victim's stolen blood.

Half the crowd were using Seamus' name as their battle-cry, and Neville's head snapped around, looking for some sign of his friend as he added his voice to the noise, but there was no answering yell, no flash of a golden sword, and though several of the creatures, light and dark alike, towered above the heads of the mortals, he was the only man on horseback, and a chill shot through him as he caught a brief glimpse of copper against the bloodied earth. He turned Phoenix, pressing towards where he had seen it as he hoped against hope that it was only the flame-colored hair of a human casualty, but a few more hard-fought paces belied that desperate belief.

Capall lay on his side in the torn new grass, his eyes sightless and his throat slashed open, and beneath him, Neville could see the muddied fletchings of a quiver full of shattered arrows, the limp string and silver tip of a broken bow. His heart leapt to his throat, and though he continued to fight unconsciously, it was as if all the whirling struggle around him had fallen to silent slow motion. It couldn't…not after…not  _now_ , not when victory was close enough to taste in the bitter blood on the air.

"Ya got bored up there, did ya? Decide t'come play with the big boys after all?"

"Seamus!" The other man had appeared as if out of thin air, the golden sword now ruby-black with blood, but although he was covered in it, his long hair dripping with it, his limbs moved easily as he slashed and thrust, there was no hesitation of pain in his movements, and his voice was clear and strong, his smile brilliant white and almost giddy. Neville shook his head, sparing another quick look at Capall's body, at the broken quiver beneath. "But your –"

"Don't need no long-range shite anyways," he shrugged, deliberately misunderstanding. "'Tis all hand to hand, and a feckin' mess this is!" There was a hardness to his tone now, the cold certainty of a fellow commander, and Neville pushed aside his own fear and relief as he listened, flipping Ascalon in his grip to stab up beneath the jaw of a gray-skinned giant that was lumbering towards an old man who had taken the spiked club of a slaughtered Dullahan. "Passion can't win this, Fearless Leader. We're takin' heavy losses. 'Tis time to turn this, and turn it fast before Ireland loses more o' her own. The Diabhal Dubh?"

"Gone," Neville confessed. "I had him up on the platform, but then he vanished on me…not Apparition, but close enough."

"Then he's not our worry for now," Seamus snapped curtly. "Reinforcements for the front lines, split them, circle the two and start drivin' them up the outside o' the mob and back up, get them –"

"—back to the Oweynagat." Neville nodded quickly, pausing only to yank Ascalon from the skull of a Barghest that fell, legs paddling feebly, to be finished beneath a dozen infuriated clubs that pounded the beast to an unrecognizable pulp. He dropped the strap of his shield back to the crook of his elbow, freeing his hand to take the Horn of Borabu from his belt again, and he sent up the call, knowing without knowing how that it wasn't a single long note sounded this time, but a series of shorter blasts not to summon, but direct.

It was time to turn the tide of seventeen years and push the armies of hell back where they belonged.

As Danu had promised, the Faye answered his summons at once, breaking off from the helter-skelter chaos of the current, disorganized battle into a far more wickedly directed attack. Like a living spear, they thrust through to the center of the Diabhal Dubh's army, and there was no answering unification to oppose them as they split the dark mass neatly in two, peeling off and turning again to surround the broken halves.

Neville and Seamus exchanged a brief, wordless agreement in a single look, then both men separated, each to their own command, and Neville fought his way to the edge of the left flank, his attention drawn to a tall, silver-skinned warrior with vivid emerald eyes who was clad in the extravagant crested helmet of an ancient chieftan. "Drive them!" He gestured towards the platform with Ascalon, Phoenix rearing up as he pulled back the reins to turn the destrier on the spot. "Up! Back! Cast them back!"

A nod, a shouted command in the ageless Gaelic he had first heard from the Fomorian leader barely a mile and a lifetime from this very spot, and they were moving. Still fighting, every inch still paid in blood and pain, but moving nonetheless, merciless shepherds leading their unwilling flock to slaughter. Neville himself joined a dozen of the strongest Faye warriors, using the speed and height Phoenix allowed to canvass the edges of the mass, keep the monsters from breaking through, intervening to save their own wherever the fight had grown pitched against them, using his bow to pick off those who seemed inclined to lead or simply the most bloodthirsty.

It was no less brutal than the last time he had struggled on this ground, but this time could not have been more different. This time, he was prepared, armed and armored for exactly this kind of ruthless hand-to-hand, and Ascalon was as an extension of his body, moving swift and sure in one untiring stroke after another to bite into hideous faces and sever black-haired limbs.

Each one, every one was an atonement, a redemption for what could not be done before. Whether it was true or not, it didn't matter, because there was the werewolf that had ripped open Maher's stomach. Those, crushed beneath Phoenix's stamping hooves, were the vicious little creatures that had taken down Zacharias. There, screaming in agony with his blade in her guts was the blue-faced hag who had snapped Demelza's neck. And battered away by his shield to be delivered to the tender ministrations of the crowd's falling clubs was the Dullahan who had torn his scythe into George's chest to silence the trickster's heart.

Something slammed hard into his back, throwing him forward against the tall horns of the jousting saddle, but it had been designed to keep even a wounded knight on his mount, and he was spared what would have been certain death were he to have fallen into the swirling battle at his feet. Phoenix screamed in pain, bucking madly, and he could feel and hear hot breath through the mail, something heavy and sharp-clawed clinging to his back, trying to get purchase enough to go for the vulnerably exposed back of his neck.

Neville twisted, slashing back with Ascalon, but it was too long a weapon for an attacker that was physically  _on_ him, and he arched and bucked himself, trying to throw it off, but now the panting breath was ruffling his hair, drips of hot saliva spattering his neck, and he could hear the feathers of his arrows crunch as the snapping jaws missed by inches.

The arrows.

Quickly, taking no time to fumble with buckles or straps, Neville reversed the sword to slash at his own chest, trusting to the mail to protect him as he flung himself hard to the side. The straps cut, the quiver fell from his shoulders, and with it the thing that had been clinging to his back, and he had only a moment's glimpse of the boar-faced Fomorian before it was lost to the chaos. His chest was burning, a glance down warned him that the razor-sharp blade had bitten through more than wool and leather, but the cut was shallow, and he ignored it as he fought on.

They had completely separated the two halves of the army now, and though he couldn't see Seamus, he had to trust that his friend was still alive, because it was more than enough task to see to his own. Sensing, perhaps, what was in store for them, the dark creatures had begun to attack with greater coordination now as they neared the foot of the platform's outermost ring, and they were stabbing at their perimeter of opponents in tight-knit, murderous bursts aimed at breaking the line, at allowing them to bolt loose to free reign over the field.

This was the most dangerous part of it all, Neville knew. Getting them not only up onto the platform and into the Oweyganat, but not letting them break free while it was done, because here, at the edge of the stones where only moments ago had been the farthest from the battle's front lines, was where those of the crowd who had chosen _not_ to answer Seamus' challenge were clustered in terror. The oldest and the very youngest, those so weakened by hunger they could barely stand or too wasted by disease to even attempt to fight, they seemed to charge the demons with the hope of a last taste of helpless blood, but it could not be allowed.

A piercing scream, higher and more shrill than those sounding already in the deafening noise, snapped his attention to wheel Phoenix almost completely around, and he reached for his lance as he saw that one of the beasts had broken loose. It had a woman on the ground, only her thickly piled clothing slowing and tangling the tearing teeth, but Neville's fingers found only a broken shaft where the lance had been.

For a split second, he hesitated, unsure, then the woman screamed again, and he leaned forward over Phoenix's neck, rising in the saddle as if on the tournament field, the shattered remains of the lance still enough as he charged. It was a dark parody of the joust that had passed so many warm afternoons with Kaye when the 'real' training was over for the day, but it had honed his aim and steadied his hand as was the sport's true purpose, and the splintered ends of the ash shaft skewered the creature's back as neatly as he could have wished.

And now the leading edge of their crawling slaughter was mounting the outer ring, and he blew the horn a third time, prompting all who could be spared to the rear, to the added thrust that would be needed to push them up and over and back at last. Perhaps the crowd sensed what they were doing, perhaps it was merely the martial rush of the piercing notes, but although they had been flagging back, allowing the Faye to take the brunt of the last – minutes? Hours? He had no way to guess, nor did it matter – now they rushed in again, and it was enough.

Someone shouted his name, and Neville turned in the saddle as they pressed up onto the broken stone of the platform, grinning wildly as he saw Seamus, still alive and apparently unwounded at the head of his own column, just appearing now at the opposing side. He tipped Ascalon's hilt to his brow, the grin widening manically further still. "I win!"

"Not a chance!" Seamus shouted back, his own sword never pausing as he made his way slowly backwards up the stairs from the lower ring to the platform itself. "You're wounded, points off!"

"You lost your horse!" he retorted, and there was a brief pause as Seamus dispatched a particularly nasty Sceadugenga before he winked back over his shoulder, offering his own salute with the golden blade.

"Fair 'nuff…call't a draw, then?"

"Sure!" It was easier now, much easier. As soon as the first of the dark creatures had been forced into the still-roaring bonfire, the choice became clear to the others. For seventeen years, they had ruled as easy kings of a land utterly unprepared for such hideous beings to walk freely among them, but there was no question that this ease was no more, and the green fields of the Oweynagat could be clearly glimpsed through the flickering flames. Faced with the options of violent death or a return to exile, the decision was easily made for the most part, and it was little more than preventing stragglers and the handful who tried unwisely to make a break for it as they flung themselves more than willingly back to the Otherworld.

And then, as suddenly as it had begun, it was over. The Diabhal Dubh's faithful acolytes had been broken by the first wave, crumpled in heaps of white robes that had become scarlet shrouds or else tightly bound at the feet of their captors, and Neville himself struck down the last of the demons who refused to be cast through; a bear-bodied Fomorian who barely managed to graze the edge of his bracers with its claws before Ascalon cut the menacing growl to a rattling, final gurgle.

Quiet held Druim Cett for a few stunned moments, still broken by the moans of the wounded, the rasping, panting breaths of the victors, but seeming like absolute silence after the crash and roar of moments prior. The two wizards stared at each other incredulously across the bonfire, scarcely willing to believe that they'd done it, that they'd won, but slowly, like the coming tide, a new sound began to build across the bloodied clearing.

It was a cheer, every bit as wild and joyous as had swept the shattered stones of the Great Hall at Hogwarts all those years ago, and Neville allowed it to wash over him, thrusting Ascalon high into the air as he grabbed Seamus in a mad, grateful embrace. There were hundreds, maybe a thousand watching, strangers all, but it didn't matter as he laughed and sobbed, as the tears of relief and triumph and grief for all those who could never see poured shamelessly down his blood-smeared cheeks.

The cheer was becoming a chant now, and Seamus' eyes widened bemusedly as it became clearer, his face flushing with unexpected embarrassment even through the filth, but he finally turned, sweeping the Sword of Findias into a low, theatrical bow.

_Who are ya?! Who are –_

A crack, deafening and terrible, shot across the exultations, and a score of people were blasted off their feet, dead before they hit the ground as a bolt of lightning parted through the crowd like an immense, scorching blade. Those who had survived the initial blast scrambled back, shouts becoming screams as a single figure, black-robed and silver-masked, walked slowly, regally towards the base of the platform where he had erected his altar.

Brown eyes caught blue, and nothing needed to be said, because they both knew. They had declared victory too soon, but they would have it still. Whatever that meant.


	26. The Last Full Measure

No one spoke, no one moved as the Diabhal Dubh made his way slowly up the cracked steps, but as he reached the platform, Neville took a deep breath, raising Ascalon to hover the point in front of the dark-clad chest, his voice carefully steady as he held the cold eyes. "It's over. Your army is gone."

Below, the crowd had recovered from their initial shock, and the chant had begun to build again, only this time it was hatred, not celebration that fueled their passion as it grew louder with each repetition. "Kill him! Kill him!  _Kill him!_ "

As if completely oblivious to the urgent command, the two men faced one another, and Neville had to fight to suppress an unwilling shiver as the familiar, almost playful smile appeared on the thin lips. Rocks and knives, branches and blades were flying towards the dark wizard now, but they bounced away from an unseen shield, and neither flinched from the useless outpouring of fury. "Ah, but it ain't over, is it?" The Diabhal Dubh said smoothly, parting the front of his robes with one finger, just enough to allow a glance of his morbid protection beneath. "Can't lay a hand on me now no more than ya could before, neither o' ya."

" _Kill him! Kill him!"_

Silently, Neville willed the sword to strike true this time, to understand that for all the love he still held for them, the people behind the grisly carapace were gone, their flesh being used against what would have been their will as well as his, but something whispered not to attack, not yet, and he held back. Faith had seen him through this far, and he had learned if nothing else to trust such instincts, especially when they seemed to run against his own.

Even still, he did not back down, his head held defiantly high as he felt a childish resentment that he still had to look up a few inches into the Diabhal Dubh's eyes when he had been at even height with Riddle himself. "I would have had you before, you know –"

"I know here I stand," he was cut off with an air of dismissive impatience, the black-gloved fingers fluttering. "If ya could do so much more than bleedin' talk, why's that so?"

"Because –" Neville began, but again he was interrupted, and his hand tightened all the harder on the hilt of the sword, barely able to contain the desire to thrust it forward with all his strength. Three inches of air and a few more of fragile flesh and bone, how easy it would be….

"You're an Auror, ain't ya?" He blinked, startled to hear the reminder of what he himself had almost forgotten completely he had ever been, and the Diabhal Dubh seemed to know it, the smile widening fractionally. "Well…here I am."

The long arms spread wide in an exaggerated gesture of sacrifice, letting the robes fall open deliberately as he turned his empty hands brazenly. "Best bettin' the Crown's finest fugitive, and wouldn't it be a damned dereliction to kill a prisoner what honest surrendered to ya?"

"Honest!" Seamus' scorn hit the tense air like a slap as he strode forward, his face screwed up in open distaste for a moment before he let loose with a thick gob of spit that splattered the lavish boots. The Diabhal Dubh did not react, but Seamus didn't seem to care, spinning to face Neville instead, eyes blazing. "Don't buy his shite, Fearless Leader! He ain't drawn an honest breath since his mother cursed the day her stinkin' womb dropped him into this world!"

"Don't worry," Neville replied coldly. A smile of his own ghosted at the edges of his mouth as he brought Ascalon's tip that little bit closer, resting it now ever so lightly against the precise border of the carapace and the naked throat above. "Besides, I was given specific authorization by the Minister himself to use whatever force I felt necessary." The first flicker of fear crossed his enemy's expression at this move, and he knew and reveled in the fact that it was his own eyes that would have prompted that fear. He was a soldier only reluctantly, a merciful man by nature, but as he had once warned his friend, the monster now at the end of his sword was the exception to any core of kindness he held.

"But that weren't for me, were it? Didn't believe I even existed, if remember it right I do. That were for your wee friend there." The words tumbled quickly at first, but then he found the sneering confidence again, and his voice lifted to carry across the mob below whose demands had given way to breathless observation. "Or ain't he mentioned to all ya's that he's a murderer afore ya went crownin' him your hero? Oh, aye! Common murderer! Cold blood and cold steel in back alleys were his way, carvin' up his victims like a Christmas goose!"

Seamus chuckled dryly, not bothering to rebut the accusation but showing no sign of shame as he shrugged casually. "Maybe I did, maybe I were murderer to not a one didn't deserve worse…but let's not compare the blood on our hands, or yours'd be enough t'drown that black soul a hundred times, it would."

"Blood is blood, boy!"

"Then let's see some o' yours if all's the same." It was so fast as to be little more than a gilded blur, but Seamus had ducked beneath Ascalon's extended blade, and the Sword of Findias was buried in the gray beard, a single, tightly controlled droplet of crimson the only sign of where metal met skin.

"Then let's see some o' theirs." His voice seemed far too calm, far too steady, but then Neville saw the wand in his hand, pointing not towards Seamus, but behind him, towards the crowd. The threat was eloquent in his rugged features, and the exchanged glance was a shared curse as both men stepped back, their weapons lowered to a mocking laugh.

"You're soft, the both o' ya, weak as babes at heart! I'll be the one sayin' how it goes from here, thank ya kindly." The wand twitched, crackling ominously, and there was a collective gasp from below as the Diabhal Dubh turned just enough to allow all to see as his voice rose. "Or are ya men enough to see all these people die so ya can have me on your terms?"

"I thought you were giving yourself up a second ago?" Neville said bitterly. "I guess you changed your mind?"

"Choice is yours, Auror. I go with ya, or I go to the Oweynagat."

"To find a way back again someday?" Seamus shook his head harshly, mingled drops of blood and sweat scattering the air as his fists clenched. He looked almost animal in his fury, his face flushed so darkly that the streaks of gore seemed as much part of him as the designs inked into the flesh itself. "If ya pass into that fire, ya ain't goin' nowhere but the depths o' hell, upon me mother's name I swear!"

"And if ya do? And if you're lucky 'nuff a few o' these folk maybe even live? What o' ya then?" The Diabhal Dubh gestured casually with the wand towards the ravaged landscape below. "Kings o' a nightmare, all ya'd be. A land destroyed, a people starved, no crops for a year the least, cut off from all the world outside…such a prize, ain't it?"

There was a long pause, then to Neville's astonishment, Seamus nodded, the anger fading to an expression of genuine thoughtfulness. "He's right, he is."

He whirled, the Diabhal Dubh almost completely forgotten as his mouth dropped open in utter disbelief. " _Seamus_!"

"Truth's truth, Fearless Leader." His friend shrugged, spreading his hands as he slipped his sword calmly back into its sheath before approaching the Diabhal Dubh again, circling him now with a deliberate, measured stride as he twisted the end of his ponytail contemplatively between his fingers, his voice effortlessly conversational. "Fecked each other, haven't we? As here we stand, ain't no way none be winnin' this, is there? You're damned to hell or damned to exile or damned to prison but damned and damned deserved wherever ya turn, but damned as much are we. So the question's turned to ya, it is…."

And now he stopped, his face concealed as he stood to face the Diabhal Dubh toe to toe, looking up evenly into the masked face, words still measured and reasonable, but with an undercurrent colder than any winter's night. "Do ya really believe, to the bottom o' all ya call a heart, that ya could take me? Look in me eyes and think feckin' hard 'afore ya answer."

Something in the vibrant blue stare seemed to actually rattle the dark wizard, and he took a half step back, the dismissiveness too obviously forced. "What is this?"

"I'll make ya a wager, I will." Seamus continued as if he hadn't spoken, the conversation carrying easily and yet somehow still as private as any intimate bedroom confession between lovers. "Blood wager, bound on t'oldest magic. Your victory to ours."

Neville couldn't take it any more. He had no idea what Seamus was playing at, but the suggestion of laying everything they had won so hard on the flip of some existential coin…! "Are you out of your  _mind_!?"

"Reckon I may well be, but so's the world these days."

"I can't allow you to –" He shook his head, stepping forward again, Ascalon already starting to raise when Seamus whirled on him, eyes blazing.

"Shut it, Longbottom!" That stopped him in his tracks. Never, in all their years of turbulent friendship, had Seamus addressed him by his last name, and it was so unexpected that he could only gape stupidly, silenced by shock more than obedience. "This ain't your business! This is how it shoulda been from the first."

As if Neville had ceased to exist, Seamus turned back to his adversary, and he could hear the smile in the other man's tone. "Him and me."

"Ya've fascinated me, boy, that ya have," the Diabhal Dubh confessed pleasantly. "I'd hear more o' this wager o' yours."

"No armies. No armor. No magic." Seamus ticked off the conditions on his fingers, never breaking eye contact. "Nothin' but your blade and mine, man t'man as ought be, and death the bargain. Kill me, and all we've won,  _all_ o' our victory is yours again. Ya have your army and your land again, and 'tis never we can challenge nor trouble ya more." His voice dropped to a brittle-edged whisper, and Neville could hear again the shadow of madness he thought long banished. "But when I cut that forked tongue from your mouth, 'tis  _your_ victory ya surrender."

"And why would ya think I'd take somethin' so fool?"

"How's it fool if so sure ya are I'm just some jumped-up backstreet brawler? And what have ya to lose ya ain't lost already?" He chuckled again, gesturing lightly at the gnarled wand as if it were nothing more than a common root. "Ya think I'll blink o'er a handful o' hostages? Startled me, so's I'll admit, but after I've a chance to think? Feck if I don't know ya've starved ten times more, and I'm a killer besides, ain't I?"

Another pause, the tension a palpable, heavy thing that choked the air, and at last the Diabhal Dubh frowned, inclining his head towards the hilt at Seamus' belt. "I've no sword."

"This ain't mine no how." Taking a step back, Seamus released the clasp at his waist, allowing sword and carriage to clatter to the stones, but at the same instant, as if by magic, the old ivory-handled blade was in his hand, and he raised it to the light, running one thumb over the honed edge in an effortless, sinuous caress. "You've a knife, and oh, me darlin' lamb, so do I."

The Diabhal Dubh raised his hand, and the heavy ritual knife flew from where it had fallen among the rubble beside the altar where his intended sacrifice was still bound within his protective cage of briars. For a moment, as the two men faced each other, it seemed as if it were going to begin right then and there, but he didn't attack with it, merely slipped it into his belt as he bowed unnervingly politely and extended his empty hand. "Then a wager 'tis."

Before Neville could issue a single word of protest, blood-smeared freckles had closed over the thick, heavy knuckles, and he could sense the powerful magic that surged beneath the instant the devil's deal was forged. The handshake itself was oddly civil and perfunctory, no posturing attempts at a crushing or lingering grip from either side, and the Diabhal Dubh was the first to step back, shrugging off his own outer robe and reaching for the golden brooches that held his carapace at the shoulders as he tipped his head towards Seamus. "I'll be generous to ya, I will, seen's ya've been runnin' about after me lads for a while, and it must to tire a fellow…a few minutes for ya to catch your breath while's both we strip off?"

Seamus didn't move, his eyes narrow slits of suspicion that were, to Neville, the most hopeful thing he'd seen yet. "One move, ya fecker, one trick ya try, and –"

"We've a wager, don't we?" The Diabhal Dubh sounded offended at the very suggestion. "What'd I gain by givin' up so easy a way t'get rid o' ya?"

This apparently satisfied Seamus, and he nodded, turning his back unworriedly as he bent to remove his greaves. Neville watched a moment more, incredulous as the two wizards calmly undid straps and stretched joints, looking as though nothing more than a little pride and perhaps a few Galleons were riding on the outcome of this barbaric gamble, but then he shook himself, hurrying to crouch at Seamus' side. "You can't do this!" he whispered urgently. "It's –"

"It's already done."

Neville let out a deep breath, biting his lip at the unavoidable truth, but then his jaw set in new stubbornness, and he grabbed Seamus' hand as he began to unlace the thongs that held the bracers in place. "If this has to happen, for Merlin's sake, at least let me!"

"No." The reply was calm, simple, but the feeling of panic increased as Neville took note of how far his own hand spanned around his friend's tightly muscular forearm, then glanced up at the broad shoulders of the Diabhal Dubh.

"He's twice your size!"

"And I'm half his age and better by thrice than he knows." The bracers were piled neatly atop the greaves, the carapace next, and now he pulled the cord from his hair, making a face as the blood-matted strands resisted his efforts to pull it into three sections before he began to braid it tightly back. "Seems fair 'nuff to me. And with all due respect, Fearless Leader, ya wouldn't last two seconds."

"I've been trained too, you know." Neville protested. "I think I've demonstrated more than enough that I know what I'm doing."

"Ya ever used a  _knife,_  Fearless Leader?" His friend's fingers were still moving busily, but his eyes locked cold on Neville's own, and he felt something dirty slink through the pit of his stomach at the sheer ugliness of what was shadowed there. It was an evil in some ways greater than the black hollows he saw when he met the eyes of the Diabhal Dubh, because that was rotting flesh fed upon by a vulture, not a man, and as much as he wanted to, he could not look away as Seamus went on. "Not in practice, on a man's throat. As different from a sword it is as a kiss t'your mother and feckin' a whore. Ain't nothin' more intimate, there ain't, and takes a cut outa your soul every time flesh's crossed."

He tied off the end of the braid, tossing it back over his shoulder, and now he leaned forward, that appalling window into blue-framed hell pushed relentlessly close until their faces were near enough to kiss. "I've done it. You're too good, too  _sane_  for this…only chance I have is that I know I can be same's ruthless as he." As if the lid had been returned to Pandora's box, his gaze softened, and he brought one hand up to stroke Neville's cheek, his voice kinder and yet more sorrowful than he had ever heard. "'Tis long too late for me, but oh, me dear friend, let me spare ya this at the least. I've cost ya so much."

Neville nodded, understanding at last, and he tried to allow the entirety of the love he hadn't properly appreciated be seen in his own eyes as he took the hand from his cheek, kissing the tips of the callused fingers gently. "Be  _careful_ , Seamus."

A smile without mirth, a chuckle without amusement, a shake of the head that was barely visible. "Not a chance."

"Then win."

"That I'll do."

And now he stood, turning away to stretch his arms, crack his knuckles, tossing the knife lightly from hand to hand with his eyes closed. He was talking to himself, a quiet mantra that sounded like prayer, and Neville wondered what strength his friend drew from the hushed Gaelic that brought such a serene smile to play across his lips. " _Anbhas go halainn…anbhas go halainn…."_

"Ya ready, little boy?" The jeering words yanked Neville's attention back to the center of the circle, and his heart sank. The Diabhal Dubh was wearing only his boots and snug black trousers, and he was clearly in exceptional physical shape for a man of his years, chest and shoulders swelling thickly above his firm, flat stomach beneath a dusting of iron-gray curls, the mask gone to reveal every twist of his hateful face. He held the knife confidently, gracefully tucked into his palm, his arm cocked and poised, and it looked so much more polished than Seamus' own tautly fisted clutch and thuggish crouch.

There was no announcement, no signal that began the duel, Seamus simply exploded forward, a shout and a blur of steel, and it looked to Nevile as if it should have been over just that quickly, but the Diabhal Dubh arched, spun, and somehow he hadn't been touched and the fight was on. There was little difference in the weapons themselves, but the combatants barely seemed to be participating in the same battle.

The older man was clearly well-schooled in some form of martial art, every movement radiating surety and poise and a terrifyingly clear force that made every blow a potential death strike, swipes and thrusts that could gut a belly or sever an arm, never leaving himself open a fraction of an inch. His opponent, meanwhile, darted and ducked nearly too fast to see in the unpredictable dervish of the lawless streets, always managing to stay just a hair's breadth out of reach, though finding no more success in bringing steel to skin.

The ominous game of cat and mouse lasted so long that Neville began to feel dizzy, only then realizing he had been holding his breath, and it was almost another full minute of frenzied struggle before the Diabhal Dubh managed at last to catch Seamus as he spun beneath a decapitating slash, his free hand snapping back and around to grab the tattooed shoulder and twist. The cry of the crowd drowned Seamus' own grunt of pain as he was flipped in mid-air, landing hard on his back, and the sacrificial knife blurred down, but incredibly, he had already recovered, rolling and springing to his feet again so swiftly that the edge hardly brushed his ribs, while at the same time his own knife flew up and back.

They had separated again now, eyeing each other anew, both men taking stock of their own injuries as well as one another. A long cut split the side of Seamus' tunic, and he tore it open and off, revealing a shallow but freely bleeding slice across the interwoven crosses that covered his upper body in its beautiful litany of sins unforgiven. The Diabhal Dubh, meanwhile, had taken a stab wound completely through his wrist, but the thin, sharp blade seemed to have somehow slipped between rather than through the network of veins and sinews, because there was oddly little blood, and the fingers still flexed freely, the only sign of pain the fresh intensity of murder in the hooded eyes.

Seamus skimmed his fingers across his chest, a mocking smile appearing as he satisfied himself that it was no trick of adrenaline that the injury was only skin-deep. "Are we dancin'?" He goaded, beckoning with the scarlet-tinged blade as if genuinely eager to begin again. "That all ya can manage?"

His answer was a fresh assault, but Seamus leapt aside before the knife ever came close, and for the first time, anger bore down over the confidence in the dark wizard's expression. "I thought ya wanted t'fight me, coward! But 'tis nothin' but run and run again!"

"Don't see where I were agreein' to stand still and let ya start carvin' away." Seamus taunted. "Catch me first and then we'll try another tango, we shall, though ya seem come off a bit the worse from last."

Neville could see now what Seamus was trying to accomplish, the classic ploy of any smaller man against a larger foe: wear him down, use speed and agility to exhaust strength and power, but there was a conservation in the studied flow of the dark wizard's attacks and parries, and he felt the first awful prickles of defeat as he realized that it wasn't going to work. Seamus had fought a full battle already, and the catlike evasions were growing thinner and nearer, his face reddening, his body beginning to gleam with sweat as  _he_ was the one whose strength and speed were nearing an end far sooner than his opponent's.

The Diabhal Dubh could see it too, and he grinned cruelly, stepping back again after Seamus had evaded his last assault so narrowly that a lock of hair now hung loose from the braid, severed at the temple where the knife intended to gouge out an eye had brushed the side of his face by an inch. "Gettin' tired, aincha?"

There was no reply, but there didn't need to be, because although his eyes still blazed, his steps were still edged on the balls of his feet, Seamus was breathing too hard to answer, and now that he had momentarily ceased his constant cyclone of attack and defense, Neville could see that somewhere, at some point he hadn't even been able to follow, the enemy had succeeded in connecting a second time. Seamus had switched hands with the knife, and his right was clutched close like a bird with a broken wing, the actual wound hidden, but fresh blood smearing heavily over the inside of his bicep and the side of his chest beneath.

He wanted to look away, his throat tightening, because he remembered from school how  _very_  right-handed the other man was, and if he couldn't even legibly write his name with his left, then not only his life, but their victory itself and whatever that meant was slipping further and further away with every heartbeat that dripped a little more crimson and a little more strength to stain the jagged stones.

Why, oh  _why_ had he allowed this to happen!? It wasn't something noble, some great poetic confrontation, this was just sick, and all he could do was watch. Every corner of his heart cried out to  _do_ something, to end this, to drive Ascalon deep into that perfectly exposed back, but he was too aware of his own ignorance of the subtleties of the magic spun into this bloody web. Would interfering mean the same as a loss? Did that even matter now? Or would it be worse somehow, give even  _more_  power to this madman atop what would already be conceded? Neville hadn't even realized that his hand had clasped the hilt, that the sword was already drawn a few inches, but he forced himself to let it go, his fists clenched impotent at his sides as the Diabhal Dubh gloated openly.

"You're hurtin', too. Why don't ya just make it easy on yourself? I'll do it quick, I will, 'tis promise. All ya got's your speed, and that's flaggin' fast." He flicked the knife in elaborate patterns through the air, illustrating his own unbroken prowess. "Ya made a mistake, ya know that now. Can't win it, 'cause if ya get in close enough t'strike, I've gotcha, and that's your end."

"You're right, ya are." Seamus nodded reluctantly, but there was no defeat in his eyes, and his voice refused any sign of the pain that creased his face against his will. "Better than I thought ya'd be, and ain't no killin' ya and livin' to tell meself, there ain't."

"Tragic thing, do ya find it?" There was a disgusting pity to the musing, and the Diabhal Dubh began to circle closer, seeking his opening for the kill. "Seein' clear when it's too late?"

But incredibly, Seamus smiled, and now he passed the knife back to his right hand, even as his arms unfolded, revealing an ugly stab wound to the meat of his upper arm that still pumped blood in a worryingly thick stream, his face already having lost its flush and beginning to pale beneath the loss. "Ah, me lamb, I see clearer than ya know." His tone was bright, even cheerful, and as he passed near in the predatory dance, there was something else in his smile, something new that made Neville gasp as he prayed he didn't know what it was. "And you're wrong. It's ya who can't win."

"Then you're still delusional."

It was the beatific smile of a saint and the grin of pure insanity, and for an instant, the blue eyes passed the Diabhal Dubh to lock on Neville, and he knew he'd been right, because it was also a promise. Then it was only the two of them again, and there was nothing to the smile any more but the shining edge of the knife. "No, I ain't. Ya want to live. I just want ya to die."

There was no time for the Diabhal Dubh to register the words, much less respond. The few minutes respite had allowed Seamus to gather his strength for one last burst of incredible speed, and now he sprang forward, covering the distance between them in half a heartbeat. And the Diabhal Dubh was down, the wolf's head a streak of white and silver flash, and a gush of crimson sprayed the names of the dead as the monster's throat ripped wide.

Neville heard himself cry out, but it was in agony as much as triumph, because Seamus had reared back as he finished the stroke, and he barely had time to see the wide, wicked blade buried to the hilt in his friend's chest before the magic of their fatal bargain swept down over the cruel ground of Druim Cett and all reality tore apart at the seams.

He had already begun to sprint forward, but he had taken barely a step when he found himself locked in place, unable to move a muscle, unable to so much as blink his eyes, as if he had been hit with the most powerful Body-Bind Jinx. For an instant, he thought that was perhaps exactly what had happened, but then he saw that he was not the only one affected.

Seamus was motionless even as he had been caught in the act of recoiling from the blow, his expression not one of shock or pain, but rather astonishment and a kind of reverence as his own weapon hung in mid-air where his fingers had released, his eyes locked on the knife protruding callously from between his ribs. Branches and vines were held in the graceful bends of the breeze, looks of shock immobilized on the faces of the watching Faye, blood stopped in ruby abstracts as it spread from the body of the Diabhal Dubh, but it was all beginning to blur surreally, all detail lost as if to tears even though his eyes remained dry, and he realized abruptly that although he could see, he _felt_  nothing. At all.

There was no sense of touch, not even the faint sting of the cut on his chest or the heavy presence of his armor, there were no sounds, no smells or tastes, and now brilliantly white cracks, like painted forks of lightning were shattering out in all directions in a radiant burst that encompassed as far as the eye could see within seconds, then widened, gaped, and at last erupted, the shrapnel of the world spiraling madly off into emptiness.

Everything was black. So black that if his mind were not still functioning however dazedly, if he could not have still seen Seamus alone, hovered there in the darkness in the horrible tableau of his wound, he would have thought he had simply passed out. Yet he was still conscious, though he had less and less faith that it was not simply his own mind that had broken as he saw the same shining cracks expand across his friend's body, but not as deeply this time, passing only through the layers of blood and the laced leggings, the soft boots curled beneath him, the knife he had dropped.

Those too broke and vanished, but it was not blackness or nakedness in their place. Instead, the darkness itself cracked anew into the lines of light – further this time, up and across his chest and shoulders - and  _that_  fragmented itself away, and now Seamus was clad in an olive drab t-shirt from which the Diabhal Dubh's knife protruded, his lower body in mottled Muggle camouflage and sturdy black combat boots, the straps of a holster and the bulge of a pistol drawn across his torso.

This second, reversed fragmentation continued to spread out from where he knelt like a bloodstain, and Neville's mind simply refused to accept what it was given as the world re-formed around him, piece by jagged piece. The platform, the arena was gone, but it was still Druim Cett, a wild and untamed forest eerily lit in the final moments of sunset and the frozen-flicker orange of an unmoving bonfire.

There was the altar, and on it, the figure of a young man, tall and lanky, ginger-haired and stripped bare, with painted, freckled skin…but no wounds marred him, no ropes bound his arms or legs. At the end of the altar, a woman in a brief white robe, curled on the ground with her head shaved and her eyes empty, and all around them, poised in the oddly twisted postures of the instant of Apparition, were other, even  _more_ familiar faces and bodies, all in the same martial attire, all with looks of grim determination on the breaking crest of battle, and he could not accept, could not believe what he was seeing even as he recognized oh so clearly this long ago snapshot for what it had to be.

Because it was only partially complete. The last of the cracks were thinning to nothingness, the details sharpening perfect to the tiny smears of ash across Ginny's nose and the flecks of blood in Maher's buzzed hair, but where were their enemies? Where was the circle of masked acolytes? The dark hoard? The Diabhal Dubh himself? It was as if those things had been simply left out of this version of his memory, and if he had been capable of drawing a gasp, capable of reeling from the sheer impact of the realization, it would have knocked him to the reforming leaves beneath his feet as it all abruptly made sense.

_Your victory to ours._

It hadn't been madness at all.

Mad, perhaps, in the boggling stakes he had been willing to risk. Mad, perhaps, in that the last smile and the look in his eyes had said all too clearly that he had known from the start that the cost would be his own life, that he had deliberately chosen the method of their wager as one he knew he could win, even as he knew that winning would be painfully fatal. Mad that he had been willing to set aside all that he had recovered of himself to dip back into that bitter well of ruthlessness and taste his own hate so strongly again. Mad, even, in the sense of that ethereal line that separated the concept from genius that he had thought of it at all. But not at all insane.

The Diabhal Dubh had not been forced to surrender. He had simply never won. It was all undone, from the first instant where the tide had turned irrevocably against them: the instant they had appeared in the sacrificial clearing at Druim Cett. They were still there, but their enemies were banished, cast back to the Oweynagat or even, perhaps, as Neville suspected deep down from his friend's prior vow, to somewhere far darker.

_Your victory to ours._

And he had won.

He still could not fully grasp the reality of it, that such a thing could ever be, but when his heart began to pound in his ears again, when motion returned to his limbs, all of the stunning implications ceased to matter. Because Seamus was swaying on his knees, fingers brushing gently across the hilt of the knife, and the green fabric was instantly soaked dark as a deep shudder went through him and he collapsed.

Neville surged forward, barely skidding to his knees in time to catch the other man before he hit the ground, looking down into the shock-white face as his lips parted, revealing a dark froth that had already welled into his mouth, blurring his words. "Did…did it."

"Yeah, you did it." It was hard to talk past the thickness that clotted his own throat, and he shifted his hold enough to lace the fingers of one hand through his friend's, squeezing gently. "You  _knew_. Oh, fuck, Seamus, this is what you meant to happen all along, wasn't it? This wasn't about what kind of mess we were inheriting at all!"

"Set it…" There was another shudder, and his face contorted as Seamus coughed, spattering a heavy gush of scarlet across the blood that already coated his chest and neck, then his back stiffened, and blue vanished to white for an instant before his eyes closed entirely and his body went completely limp in Neville's arms, the final word barely formed before the last signs of life faded too quickly away altogether. " _…right…_."

" _No."_ It was half a moan, half a whisper, all of it hurting so much more than he'd expected when deep in his heart he had seen it coming not only for the last few moments of the duel, but really, if he was honest, for years. He knew that in all truth he was holding someone who had died long ago in a charred and broken room, but that didn't make it any less at all, because there had still been glimpses, tantalizing moments that had suggested it might not have to be that way, that something might be left of the boy who had been the young man who had been his Lieutenant who had been his friend who had sacrificed everything to give everything back. Not that it mattered now.

Chaos surrounded him, a babble of voices and shouted questions and demands and the flurry of movement, but he hardly even heard it at all, and then someone was at his side, small white hands pulling his away with surprising strength, and he blinked, staring at the young woman in the red-cross helmet whom he had last seen with her neck snapped like a ravaged doll. She was pushing past him, cutting away Seamus' shirt with her wand, and he wanted to tell her that it was too late, that he was gone, but the words wouldn't come, and he could only shake his head as her face whirled to his, vividly alive with burning urgency. "What happened?!"

"Stabbed," he managed dully. "Knife."

"I can  _see_ that!" Demelza let out an exasperated snort, then turned back to Seamus' body, dismissing Neville completely as her wand snapped and flared busily, her free hand already digging through the open bag at her hip. "Out of my way if you want any chance of me saving him!"

"Saving…" But even as he said it, he realized that there was still motion to the hilt of the knife, a rise and fall so faint that he hadn't even been able to feel it through his own trembling, that the blood was still pouring under pressure however slight, and he jerked back, abruptly terrified that he would somehow jinx whatever sliver of hope remained.

Other hands had his shoulders now, and it was Bill, standing with Ron who had been given his older brother's shirt to tie around his hips, and his mouth was moving, he was saying something, but it was lost to the overall din, and Neville took a step away, feeling himself perilously close to the edge of losing his mind entirely. But then, as steadyingly welcome as the weight of a shield on his arm, he felt the saving distance of command slam down, and he was watching himself from across that old, easy space as his voice rose to carry sharply over it all.

"Ginny, signal Harry and the extrication team. We need them down here. Demmy's got her hands full, but Percy, you're good at potions – Hermione's been drugged. Kevin, Maher, I want the perimeter swept and this area fully secured. We take no chances." The names were strange on his lips, stranger still to be speaking them again without the hopeless sting of memory, but he couldn't allow that to matter, not when just getting things done was all he was clinging to. "Somebody get Justin and Naomi to hospital, they're hurt. Bill, not  _now_ , it could have been a hell of a lot worse, I promise you. Yes, Zach, I do. Yes, he is. No, I don't think he'll bloody be fine, he's got a knife in his goddamned chest! I can't explain right now. It's a long story, but we need –"

He had turned to find Bernard, to ask…he didn't even remember. Because there she was.

She was behind him, standing only a few feet away, her beautiful face creased in confusion, and his eyes met the clear, bright, answering gaze of his wife in a wave of _something_ that was too much everything to be anything, and all the cold distance he had summoned vanished like a chip of ice tossed into a furnace. Neville's mouth opened, closed, opened again, and he couldn't have cared less if she and everyone else thought him mental, didn't care if finally he maybe  _was_.

_Hannah._

She was real and she was alive and her skin was warm under the hands that clutched and stroked, the fingers that sobbed through her soft golden hair and the lips that tasted his own tears on the sweetness of her mouth, her throat, the arms that held her moving and solid and young and whole in every curve and plane against him so tight that nothing could ever take her away. Her name was laughed and wept, murmured and broken in ten thousand aching nights that hadn't happened but had been so long and he loved her so much more than he'd ever imagined even in his loss, because she wasn't pulling away.

Her hands were stroking his head where it bent to her shoulder, her arms wrapped around him in answer, and her voice was gentle trust that understood enough that she didn't need to ask or know. Instead she just held him, kissed him, and it was the most beautiful agony of his life to hear his name from the voice that had haunted a decade of memory.

"It's all right, Neville…I'm here…I'm here."


	27. Ties That Bind

The office was large by any reasonable standards, but it still felt frustratingly small to Neville as he paced, his long strides covering the paneled floor in front of Shacklebolt's desk so quickly it almost made him dizzy. For a month he had been held until Seamus was declared recovered from his wounds enough to stand trial, and he had never born confinement well, the sense of being caged lending an additional air of desperation to the words that were already pouring out in an urgent tumble.

"I've let you keep me isolated so I can't alter my story to corroborate. I have been through Legilimency and full Penesieve Memory Retrieval. I have put myself under magical oath and swallowed enough Veritaserum to make a Gringotts goblin sing like a canary!" He turned towards the desk, throwing up his hands in surrender. "I don't understand! What more do you need to believe me?!"

Shacklebolt eyed him calmly for a long moment, then gestured towards one of the richly upholstered leather chairs that stood opposite his desk. "Sit down, Mr. Longbottom."

"Minister –"

"I said,  _sit down."_ The deep, commanding tone brooked no argument, and Neville sat, suppressing the sigh he knew would come off as childish in a way he couldn't afford. _"_ No one has said you are lying about what happened."

"But sir!" He tossed down the copy of the  _Daily Prophet_ he had been holding, motioning angrily at the headline that trumpeted the conviction of Ireland's mysterious Sluagh above a picture of Seamus being led from the courtroom between no less than a dozen Enforcers. " _Fifteen years_ in Azakaban after the man gave his  _life_  for us! The fact that we happened to have a Mediwitch right there doesn't change that it should have been mortal!"

"That was certainly taken into account by the Wizengamot in Mr. Finnigan's trial, as was  _all_ of your testimony, which I promise you was taken absolutely seriously not only because of the stringent means you were willing to accept to have it collected, but because of your own highly esteemed record of service." Shacklebolt pushed the paper back across the desk, one eyebrow raising slightly in rebuke. "As a matter of fact, I do not feel it out of line to say that you are the reason they were so lenient."

Neville was unassuaged, and he shook his head stubbornly, refusing to let the matter drop. "Fifteen years is far from lenient, Minister!"

"One year per murder, Mr. Longbottom, is  _extremely_ lenient." He paused, opening a drawer to withdraw a thick handful of letters, some of them written on the distinctive red parchment of Howlers, and deposited them on the blotter in front of him with a profoundly exhausted sigh. "I am already being inundated with owls calling it inexcusably so - and may I remind you that neither yourself nor Mr. Finnigan has denied that he did, indeed, commit those murders. That cannot simply be ignored."

"Maybe there wouldn't be so many owls if you let people know what he did," Neville protested. "Not just for us, but for the country." He displayed the newspaper again, unable to keep the bitterness wholly from his voice as he read aloud. "'…Sentence was determined in light of extenuating circumstances'…I didn't think you were like that."

"Like what, precisely?" The dark brow furrowed as he tilted his head, a measured warning in his words that Neville completely ignored.

"Covering things up, hiding things from the public. I thought after we both lived through the consequences of what Fudge –"

"Cornelius Fudge," Shacklebolt interrupted coldly, "was ignoring an active threat to the wizarding world. This is a completely different affair."

"If you really do believe me, I don't see how you can say the Diabhal Dubh wasn't a threat."

" _Was_. He is no longer. And furthermore, the consequences you mention would be just as different in this situation."

Neville leaned back in the chair, crossing his arms tightly over his chest as he let the paper drop into his lap, trying not to look at the picture. He was on the verge of losing his temper already, the weeks of having to go through the often painful memories in minute detail, of having to explain and explain again to witches and wizards who more often than not looked at him as though he were utterly deranged having taken a harsh toll on his usual easygoing restraint. "I don't see how."

"No, I don't imagine you do, or you wouldn't be arguing, I would hope." Shacklebolt took a deep breath, leaning forward to brace his chin on steepled fingertips, and he could see that he was not the only one struggling to maintain control, even if the Minister seemed more frustrated than outraged. "Let me spell it out for you: If we were to allow to be made public the full extent of what occurred, we would be inviting people to see not only vigilantism as something noble and heroic, but opening the gates to rampant persecution of anyone involved in alternative magic. Would you really like to trade an improvement to Mr. Finnigan's reputation for finding Ms. Lovegood with her throat slit?"

The bluntness of the statement hit him like a slap, and Neville looked down, feeling his face heat as he realized how right the older wizard really was. For all that he had encountered the darker side of what people were capable of, anticipating such things still did not come easily to him, and although it was obvious now that it had been pointed out, he truly hadn't considered it at all. "I apologize, sir, you're right."

Shacklebolt smiled, and though it was gentle, even paternal, he somehow managed to avoid coming off as patronizing, something for which Neville was grateful. "You have been under a great deal of strain these past several weeks, I don't hold it against you in the slightest that you're upset, but when you are in my position, you cannot always afford to act for the best interests of a single individual."

"No, you're right…" He conceded, taking a deep breath as the roiling anger didn't so much dissipate as sagged away. It wasn't defeat, not really, but it was mentally exhausting in a way that he just couldn't keep up any longer without an effort he wasn't willing to put towards a point he had already lost. "I mean, I've been a leader myself enough I should have known better. I just…it seems so unfair. Azkaban might not be what it used to be, but I still can't shake the feeling that we're all betraying him."

He met Shacklebolt's eyes pleadingly, trying to make him understand what all the testimony and reports couldn't begin to convey about what they had been through together, but he was met only with stolidly hopeless conviction in the dark gaze. "There were other options besides murder available to him, whether or not he chose to see them at the time, and whether a person 'deserves' to be killed is a matter for the courts, not an individual's opinion, no matter how passionately held."

"But couldn't –" Neville's reply was cut off by a soft knock, and both men turned to see Shacklebolt's assistant, a young witch with glasses and a narrow, ruddy face that looked perpetually pinched, as though the bun at the nape of her neck had been twisted a little too tight.

Her cheeks were even pinker than usual, however, and her lips pressed together in a professional veneer that did nothing to hide how very put out she was. "Excuse me, Minister, but there's a witch here to see yourself and Auror Longbottom. She says it's a matter of extreme urgency."

Shacklebolt did not hesitate, his eyes narrowing in disapproval at the interruption. "Tell her that I am in a meeting. She can wait."

"It's about Mr. Finnigan, sir." The witch glanced back over her shoulder, and there seemed to be a spark of fear beneath the indignation from whatever was waiting in the outer room. "She's – well, she's got about eight solicitors with her, and she wanted me to tell you that the price goes up for every minute you ignore her."

"For Merlin's sake!" His eyes had stayed with Neville's for half a second before turning to his assistant, and the flash of wearied acceptance made him actually feel sorry for the Minister, remembering that he had once been an Auror himself who had never really asked to be elected to his current position, much less when he hadn't even put his name on the ballot for the second term. "Who –"

"Mrs. Macmillan."

Another look was exchanged between them, this time of surprise, and now there was an edge of real curiosity as Shacklebolt spread his hands flat on the desk. "Elder or younger?"

"Younger."

"Susan!?" Neville's eyes flew wide, the already somewhat befuddling announcement now completely so. "What does she –?"

"Let her in, Callisto." Shacklebolt said evenly, and as the door closed, his mouth lifted in a moment of amusement at Neville's clear confusion. "Mr. Longbottom, I can safely assume that you don't have anything to do with this…this whatever it is?"

"No, sir, I'm as wandless as you are," he shrugged. "I haven't spoken to a soul outside the Ministry since you had me taken out of St. Mungo's while Seamus was in CMI."

"Then we'll simply have to…" Shacklebolt stopped as the door opened, standing to offer a slight, gracious bow as an expression of pleasant noncommittal schooled itself over his strong features. "Ah, Mrs. Macmillan. What seems to be the matter? Callisto said that it was urgent."

Callisto, he saw instantly, had not shared the half of it. Susan strode hotly into the office, her ramrod straight posture in her pink, primly cut robes giving her a surprisingly imposing presence as her heels cracked against the floor, a copy of the same paper Neville had brandished clutched in one dainty fist. "This is the matter, Minister! How  _could_ you? He doesn't deserve this!"

Shacklebolt didn't flinch as she circled around the desk to stand almost toe-to-toe with him, looking down in a calm authority that would have sent most people cringing back in apology. "I think that the families of his victims would argue that he deserves a great deal more."

Susan did not pause, slapping the paper down against the Minister's desk as she pointed to the picture, her chin thrust out stubbornly. " _Seamus_ is the victim here!"

"Mrs. Macmillan, if you will please consider –"

" _You_ consider! This is the final straw! For the last five years, I've been running my fund, using my husband's money to pick up the pieces of  _your_  – of the Ministry's – mess." Neville was stunned by her audacity as she lectured the most powerful wizard in Britain like a lazy child, but he could also recognize someone who had indeed reached the limit of something long repressed, and he was not surprised to see that she was blinking a little too often, her voice a little too tight as she went on. "I've been paying for reconstructive spellwork, for therapy, for decent funerals, proper graves, keeping people off the streets, putting lives back together as best as love and gold can manage after the Ministry was content to see those kids given medals and just enough Healing to get them back on their feet and out the door! I have done everything I can, I've done more than I ever should, and I don't regret any of it, but Seamus is part of that mess too!"

"The D.A. Survivor's Fund has certainly been an extraordinary undertaking," Shacklebolt agreed soothingly, "but I fail to see what it has to do with the verdict in a criminal trial."

"Because it's our responsibility – the entire wizarding world's – that he was a criminal in the first place! This isn't just some bad apple, Minister. This young man was a hero, one of Neville's Lieutenants right beside my husband, and just because I had a child to raise and couldn't be in enough places at once to prevent someone from slipping through my fingers doesn't mean that my fingers should have been the only ones there to catch!" She wasn't lecturing any more, but nor was she begging, her words now suspended on an ineluctable edge between guilt and pride. "What we all went through that night – that  _year_  – was enough to drive anyone mental!"

There was the real understanding of a fellow survivor as Shacklebolt nodded, and he offered Susan his hand, leading her to the other chair with true regret in his face and voice. "I agree, certainly, and in a way, it's a miracle that you're much responsible for that there weren't more who wound up with such problems, but a verdict of insanity would not have helped him."

"Oh, I know." Susan let out a deep breath, gathering herself as she pushed back a tendril of the jet-black hair that had escaped around the edge of her face, smoothing it into the long braid that looped heavily against her shoulders. "Insanity resulting in that many dead would mean a lifetime in St. Mungo's Secure Wards, I'm fully aware." She was no longer in full cry, but the intensity was no less as she leaned forward, both hands now laced tightly in her lap. "But isn't justice supposed to be about rehabilitation for those who are worth saving? Or is Seamus not worth saving to you?"

"He will have every opportunity to resume his life when his sentence is served." It was a rote evasion and everyone in the room knew it, but Susan remained calmly insistent as she pressed on.

"Have you considered exactly what Azkaban will do to him, sir? Not just that he won't get any of the help he needs, or that he's going to be treated like a common criminal, but he'll be in there with every Death Eater, every ex-collaborator, and how do you think they'll feel about one of the D.A.'s officers?" She smiled, but it was a darkly ironic twist on her full lips. "Merlin's name, sir, he probably saw half of them across the business end of a wand during the battle, and he's not the sort of man you forget."

"I know that, and I don't like it any more than either of you," Shacklebolt admitted honestly, "but my hands are absolutely tied here. After what he's done, it would be unacceptable to allow him to just walk free, and law states that no wizard may be knowingly held in a Muggle detention facility, even if wandless."

"What if there's another option?"

Susan's question hung palpably in the air for a long moment, and then Shacklebolt nodded slowly, a distinctly conspiratorial gleam in his eyes as he didn't quite smile. "Are you suggesting having him transferred to another country? Australia, perhaps? Or Canada?"

"Give him to me."

If she had suggested that Seamus be turned into a post owl for the next fifteen years, Neville could not have been more shocked, and he twisted to face her, sure he'd somehow misheard. "Susan!"

" _Please_ , Minister," she raised her hands quickly, gesturing in pacification towards both of them, and he had a feeling that like himself, it was incredulity as much as politeness that had Shacklebolt nod her on. "It's not as mental as it sounds, I promise you! The magic we have on the farm, it doesn't just keep people out, it can keep people  _in_. What if we put him under house arrest, so to speak? Keeps him off the streets and out of society for fifteen years or however long it has to be, but at least it gives him a  _chance_!"

Now Shacklebolt sat back, his hands braced on the edge of the desk as though the petite witch were going to attempt to physically move him as he shook his head firmly. "Absolutely out of the question."

"I'm with her, Minister." Neville was surprised to hear the words come out of his mouth, but as soon as he spoke them, they seemed to rationalize fully, and he was able to explain the sense he had seen behind the initially mad suggestion. "It's not just because he's my friend…I mean that. I love him, but if you put Seamus Finnigan in prison for fifteen years, it's just going to feed everything that's wrong with him; all the hate, all the anger, all the  _violence_. When he gets out, you're going to have an incredibly dangerous wizard on your hands, because his whole life's been nothing but a fight against the world, and Susan's right, we owe him the chance to at least see that there  _is_ another way."

Susan was staring at him as if she'd never seen him before, the unexpected gratitude unshielded, but Shacklebolt remained wholly unconvinced. "The answer is no. I am absolutely not sending a convicted serial murderer to live with a well-intentioned woman and her young daughter out in the middle of nowhere in the Scottish Highlands!"

He had expected more pleas, anger, even possibly tears, but not the coolly confident smile of a woman who held all the cards in a game that it was abruptly clear her adversary did not know they had begun. "Don't make me release the Bludgers, Minister."

Shacklebolt blinked, too taken aback to be truly offended. "Are you  _threatening_  me, Mrs. Macmillan?"

"I am saying that if Seamus goes to Azkaban, I will be exercising my full rights under the legal system. And those are rights that you are so far very lucky I haven't chosen to."

"What would those be?"

"I. Will. Sue." She enunciated every word with velvet venom, the smile widening as she leaned forward just a few inches, and there was an enjoyment to her tone that bordered unsettlingly on the sensuous. "I will sue the Ministry for myself, for my daughter, for my in-laws, for my husband, and for every member of the D.A. and their families I can get to go with me…which will be quite a few, because as you acknowledged, most of them feel quite indebted."

She sat up straight again, reaching into one fitted cuff to withdraw a small but official-looking piece of parchment which she consulted. "Child abandonment, abuse, educational neglect, assault, child endangerment, criminal misconduct by Ministry employees, torture, manslaughter, murder…and that's not even starting with the damages. Property, pain and suffering, emotional trauma, permanent disfigurement and disability…"

Her dark eyes flicked up to the Minister's, and there was triumph there. "You can find a way to frame what I know you know in your heart is the right thing in a way you can politically swallow, or I promise you, I can more than afford to give this Ministry a  _much_ bigger headache to worry about. I have eight of the best legal minds Galleons can buy out there right now, and they're already drooling like vampires at a blood drive to make your life hell."

Shacklebolt was silent for nearly a minute, but when he spoke again, it was all Neville could do not to grin. "If anything happens…."

"Have you ever met Ernie's father, Minister?" Susan asked pleasantly.

"Duncan, yes? A few times."

"Then you know why I feel perfectly safe." She tucked the parchment back into her sleeve with an easy shrug. "If you want us to sign some kind of waiver or release, we'll be more than happy to, but if Seamus were to lay a finger on me or Cecily or Fiona or anyone else, we'd be sending him to Azkaban in several small bags. Especially after losing his only son, Duncan's a very protective man."

"Very well then." Neville felt a new respect for the Minister as he saw that Shacklebolt too was pleased with the outcome, clearly holding back a smile of his own. "I'll get our people together with yours to sort out the details. Mr. Finnigan will serve his sentence under confinement at Loch…"

He hesitated, and Susan supplied the word that had taken Neville himself nearly a year to be able to pronounce with confidence. "Cibeirdraoid."

"Yes."

"Thank you, Minister." She stood now, extending her hand to shake the Minister's large, dark one with the grip he knew to be stronger than anyone ever expected, her eyes shining. "I knew we could come to an understanding."

"No, Mrs. Macmillan," he smiled, inclining his head politely as he ushered her to the door. "Thank  _you_."

There was a brief exchange with his assistant that was too low to hear after Susan had left, then Shacklebolt closed the door again as he turned back to face Neville. "Mr. Longbottom…."

"Yes, sir?"

"I assume that this also remedies the problems you were having with the situation?"

He allowed the smile now, letting it spread over his face and light his eyes in all the relief that it wouldn't be appropriate to shout. "Quite."

Shacklebolt nodded, looking towards the door as he took his seat again, and there was something in the back of his eyes that suggested a twinge of regret for his forty-nine years. "A formidable young woman."

"It's a lesson I learned a long time ago, sir, and that's before I married one." Neville chuckled wryly. "Don't  _ever_  underestimate a Hufflepuff."

"It would seem so." The Minister shook his head, returning his attention fully back to the two of them. "Your wife, by the way, wishes you to know she'll be waiting for you now that you've been officially released."

Neville felt the smile widen as he stood, barely remembering to pick up his newspaper. "Thank you, sir. Is that all, then?"

"Unless there's any way I could talk you out of that resignation."

He shook his head, knowing that it was a formality after the letter he had given, but having been anticipating the final attempt nonetheless. "I've had my fill of dark wizards."

"A pity." Shacklebolt got to his feet again, extending his hand. "You made an exceptional Auror, Neville. Your parents would have been proud."

Neville clasped it firmly, more touched than he had expected by the quiet truth in what could have been such a formulaic compliment. "That means a lot to me, really, but as much as I admire what they did, I'm not cut out for it the way they were. I don't think that makes me less, just…."

"Different."

"Exactly."

His hand was released as a mischievous glimmer appeared in Shacklebolt's eyes. "Other than not pressing charges for pulling the entire Auror Department AWOL for two days and putting six squads of Obliviators on overtime with some of the most… _interesting_ Muggles in Northern Ireland, is there anything I can do for you?"

Neville hesitated, momentarily torn between the urge to rush immediately home and what he knew he not only needed to do, but had been desperate to do ever since he had learned his friend was going to live. "Let me see Seamus before I go?"

"That can be arranged. Is that all?"

"Yes, sir." He bowed, feeling strange in the realization that this was probably the last time he would set foot in this office, that whenever he came back to the Ministry, it would be as an ordinary wizarding citizen, something he had never been in his adult life, but which seemed a nearly impossible relief in its simple commonness. "It's been an honor."

"I can certainly say the same, Mr. Longbottom." Shacklebolt returned the bow, and he thought he saw a fleeting hint of envy in the almost black eyes as the smile became quietly bittersweet. "I can most certainly say the same."

OOO

The holding cell was identical to the one Neville himself had once had the unfortunate honor of spending two nights in after he and Hannah had been captured by Amycus and taken to the Ministry; a little larger than ten feet square, with a low, narrow cot and simple lavatory that appeared when needed, but otherwise completely featureless gray stone from floor to ceiling. Seamus did not move when the door opened, and Neville hesitated, wondering if his friend was sleeping, and if he should disturb him.

He was lying on his side in the simple gray prisoner's robes, the blanket in a heap at his bare feet, but just as Neville had decided to wait and return later, he rolled over, saying nothing, just staring at the opposite wall as if no one were even there. Now that he had a better look than the black-and-white snapshot in the paper, he felt a shiver run up his spine, and he had to bite his tongue to keep the shock from being audible.

Seamus' hair had been cut, that he already knew, buzzed short again as he had worn it in his youth, but far from making him look younger, he looked as if every day of their ten ethereal years had caught up with him, his already deep-set eyes sunken until the vivid blue was shadowed dark. He had lost a startling amount of weight, his cheekbones drawn painfully sharp beneath the colorless skin, and the slight build that usually seemed tightly coiled with wiry strength looked delicate for the first time, fragile in a way that was terribly, terribly wrong for a man he knew above all else as a fighter.

Neville shifted awkwardly, unnerved by the emptiness of the immutable stare. "How are you doing?"

It was a ridiculous question, he knew, but he didn't know what else to say, and he wasn't really surprised when he wasn't granted a shift in the eyes or any other movement as the reply came in a low, quiet monotone that was eerily unnatural against the inherently animated brogue. "Sore, still. Don't take the potions, ain't enough t'bother with that, but leaves a man a bit under the weather gettin' holes poked in certain parts o' his insides."

"I can imagine."

At last Seamus looked at him, but it was perfunctory, no change in his lack of expression. "And ya?"

"All right. Going home." He felt like a bastard for admitting the truth, as if he was rubbing the fact of his own freedom like salt into the obvious wounds, but there was no anger or resentment, just a soft, resigned smile that turned the mouth that looked as if it had forgotten how it had once beamed so readily and often.

"Likewise. 'Spose I should get used to Azkaban bein' me new address."

He couldn't take this cold, awful distance between himself and the man who was the only person in the world he shouldn't have had to explain anything to, and Neville crossed the cell, kneeling to clasp his friend's shoulder and somehow managing not to wince at the hard jut of bone beneath his hand. "Seamus –"

"Oh, don't bother, Fearless Leader." One freckled hand reached up, patting his in patronizing dismissal, though no move was made to shrug it away. "Ya know I deserve it true enough. Didn't trouble meself denyin' it neither."

"They say you didn't defend yourself at all," Neville pointed out quietly, careful to keep any hint of accusation from tainting his tone.

"What's there to defend?"

"That you're a good man!" He surprised himself a little with his own vehemence, but he pushed on, and he felt as though he were trying to force some of his own passion back into his friend like a transfusion, pushing life into the empty veins. "That you were trying the best you could, that you were willing to believe in and fight against a threat that other people didn't want to see, that –"

"All that candy-arse shite were in your testimony well enough if they wanted t'hear it." It was bitterness, it was anger, it was barely anything, but it was something. At least it was  _something_. "Besides, it saves me the trouble."

"What trouble?"

"Decidin' what t'do with me life." A long silence followed the statement, the brief spark already gone again, and oddly, it was Hagrid's gruff voice that reflected in Neville's memory, something the gamekeeper had said ten – or was it twenty – years ago about the Hippogriffs that had been the subject of their very first Care of Magical Creatures lesson.  _Folk're 'fraid of 'em, call 'em dangerous, but they're just proud. Loyal, too, once yeh earn their respect. Only thing can break 'em is a cage._

He couldn't have been more grateful now for what Susan had done. They had been afraid prison would turn him irreparably to darkness, but Neville could see that the truth was something much worse. It wouldn't turn him, it would kill him. It would kill him from the inside out more surely and completely than any blade; already nearly had in only weeks, even as Healers had the audacity to claim him recovering.

Seamus' mouth twitched into nothing like a smile, and now it was Neville's shoulder taken in an offer of comfort for the pain he knew must be clearly painted across his face. "We ain't the same, Fearless Leader, but don't beat yourself up just 'cause I don't got no wife and garden and home waitin' for me."

"Your mother –"

"She'd take me back, 'course – don't know if it hurt worse when she hugged me or hit me when I'd woke up in hospital – but I know she'd forgive. 'Cept the thing is," he shrugged, as if the sentence was a hundred years and the whole thing were merely academic. "I can't never go back."

Neville frowned, easily able to accept that Mrs. Finnigan would have both embraced and assaulted the son whom she had loved through so many years of pain, but far less willing to believe she wouldn't take him back with open arms. "You just said she'd forgive you."

"She, aye, but not everyone. Me picture's been in the papers now, folk know who I am, and I reckon I've left more than a few nasty characters what hold a grudge somethin' fierce." He let out a long, deep breath that bled away what could have been a sob if it had held the strength, and Neville's heart twisted in fresh sympathy, because he understood so much better now how much country, however imperfect, really meant to an Irishman. "No, can't never go back, and damned if I even know what I'd do if I did. All what matters now's out t'sea and ways east o' there."

He shook his head, shifting so that he could force the eyes that had drifted away again to meet his as he smiled hopefully, squeezing his friend's shoulder more firmly in encouragement. "Seamus, we've found a way to help…it's what I came here, what I wanted to tell you. You're not going to Azkaban."

" _No!"_ As if hit by a spell, Seamus shot suddenly bolt upright, throwing off Neville's hand so harshly that it knocked him off balance and he nearly fell, staring up in shock at the blue eyes now blazing down at his in as much raw anger as he'd ever seen them hold. The other man was badly weakened, completely unarmed, there were guards barely a shout away, but he found himself frightened all the same.

"Seamus –"

"I ain't hearin' it, Fearless Leader!" He shook his head fiercely, and now that he was up, it was unimaginable that it was even the same man who had been lying so resignedly on the cot only moments before as he paced the tiny room frenetically, each turn marked by the slam of open palms against the stone harder than he should have still been capable of, enough that Neville's own hands nearly winced at the stinging impact. "Ya ain't throwin' away your life in some mad fool idea o' bustin' me out!"

"No, I'm not." Neville had gotten up now, shaking off the surprise as he stepped to block the next pass, grabbing him hard by both arms to stop him enough to listen. "It was Susan, and it's not an escape attempt."

Seamus blinked, trying to register the name for several seconds before he frowned. "Macmillan?"

"Right. She talked the Minister into letting you serve your sentence on Loch Cibeirdraoid; Ernie's farm. You won't be able to leave, but it's a beautiful place, it really is…loads better than Azkaban."

He frowned, stepping back, and Neville could see the fresh whisps of hope struggling against the sharper instinct to pull back again into the despair from which at least you could not fall. "I ain't no farmer," Seamus protested guardedly. "Ya don't want me near no feckin' sheep, Fearless Leader. Don't know one end o' the fuzzy bastards from 'tother! Kate Finnigan's son's a city boy, through and through he is."

"Feed the end with the eyes. The rest I'm sure you'll figure out." Neville smiled teasingly, reaching for what had thinly resurfaced of the old banter. "Really, Seamus, I'd have thought you'd be grateful."

"Am, I s'pose," he admitted, but his words dripped suspicion as his arms folded tightly across his chest.

"There's a 'but' there."

"No, 'tis a  _why,"_ Seamus corrected him. _"_ Scarce know the girl, didn't even stick 'round to see the little one born. Why'd she go to this kinda trouble for the likes o' me?"

"Because you're still one of us, Seamus," he offered gently, unbuttoning his cuff and rolling up his sleeve to show the monogram on his arm. "We're all D.A., and we haven't forgotten what that meant. Susan's willing to take a chance based on the man she knew then, and I'm willing to say it was the right one based on the man I know now."

"Then, now…." Seamus shook his head fiercely, and there was a childlike belligerence beneath the hurt that cracked his voice. "Weren't 'sposed to  _be_  a now! I never asked be saved, I didn't!"

"We don't abandon our own!" Neville fired back. "You're worth too much to just have let you die!"

"And what if I ain't this great person ya all seem think I am?" Hurt had been replaced by fear, and there was a horrible vulnerability to his expression now, fears so deep they should scarcely have been capable of form given trembling breath. "What if I'm just a dried-up drunk and a murderer and a feckin' vigilante what ain't no use for nothin' when it don't need killin'?"

"You're not."

"And how say ya so sure?"

"Because you saved us all," He answered bluntly. "And you never asked to be saved."

There was a long silence, and Seamus turned away, returning to the cot, and Neville thought he had shut down again, closed him out in abject refusal of the dangerous hope. He waited, a minute passed with nothing but the still back curled to him, another minute, three, then five, but just as he had turned to go, a boy's faint whisper echoed plaintively off the cold stone walls. "But what if maybe I might be needin' a bit o' a hand after all?"

He turned back, and Seamus was sitting up, facing him again, and he had never seen another human heart laid so unashamedly bare as what met him in the sunken blue eyes of his friend. Neville tried to meet it with equal honesty, and his own voice was little more than a whisper in return. "Just don't push it away…it's already there."

OOO

Really, he was just another traveler stepping into the pub, and though people tended to pause their conversations or at least stop enough to look when the newcomer was clad in an Auror's robes, for someone like himself – tall, but not strikingly so, handsome, but not strikingly so, with ordinary blue robes and a battered rucksack over one shoulder, the only distinguishing thing two long scars down the sides of his face in a world where they had grown accustomed to seeing the young scarred – no one even looked up. Even the barmaid, usually ready to greet each new customer, was busy pulling an impressive armload of pints for a rowdy group of German warlocks, and he patiently took an open stool at one end of the long bar, tucking the rucksack beneath his feet as he watched her.

It had always seemed like a turn of phrase to him, a simple idiom to say that someone shined at something, but he was seeing the whole world through fresher eyes than he had ever though possible, and although no literal light issued from the woman's body, it was still so true. Her cheeks were softly pink, her hair curling free in wisps from the twist atop her head, her smile beaming across the dim interior as she served the men with warmly professional efficiency, and he marveled to see how clearly she enjoyed her work.

Could he be like that now? Neville allowed his mind to wander as his eyes continued to drink in the simple wonder of seeing her so vibrantly alive and happy, imagining himself as the owner of a small plant emporium, or teaching a group of fresh-faced, scarless children to tend a flat of fragile seedlings. They were not new thoughts, but there was a strangely welcome potential to them now, no longer pushed away to the aimless future of 'after', and the smile was already on his mouth when she spotted him, bustling over with the quill already pulled from her apron pocket and suspended ready over the pad that hovered in mid-air.

"Yes, sir, what can I –" Hannah stopped, the pad dropping to the floor as her mouth fell open and she let out a little yelp of shock, her hand flying to her mouth to leave a tiny smudge of ink on one cheek. "Neville!"

There was no reply but to kiss her, and he did, standing up to take her in his arms in an embrace that literally swept her off her feet, and he could hear the laughter of the clients in a vague, joyful roar that matched the mad ecstacy that swirled dizzyingly through him at how incredible it was just to have her in his life again. Her body was so strong and soft beneath his hands, every curve a rich and previously unappreciated treasure, and he kissed her as never before, kissed her until they were both breathless and gasping but still couldn't bear to break apart, brushing hands over faces and staring into one another's eyes in the speechless giddiness that usually belonged to smitten teenagers.

"Ye'll be takin' it upstairs, ma'am, I 'sume? I've got the pub, I do." He could hear the comfortably rustic voice of Florence, the middle-aged witch who helped run the  _Cauldron's_ kitchens, and he nodded without tearing his eyes from Hannah's face, entirely unembarrassed by the older woman's knowing tone.

Neither of them bothered further reply, because their mouths had met again, and he wasn't even sure of how it happened, but there were doors and stairs and now they were safely within their own little flat, and the latch had barely clicked behind them before he was yanking at the strings of the apron, the closures of her robes and the undergarments beneath. Hannah was pulling at his clothing just as frantically, and this wasn't getting undressed, this was ripping cloth and popping buttons and sleeves that still stayed half-on when tops were opened and tangled limbs in tangled folds because all that mattered was getting to the raw skin beneath.

And then he was naked or near enough and so was she and he had never felt anything as wonderous as the simple glory of her body against his. It was like their first time all over again, every inch of ripe softness a revelation, but this time there was no shy hesitation or uncertainty as he cupped her breasts to his mouth, as his hands slid down the curve of her back to grasp her hips and lift her against him as his back slammed against the thankfully solid door.

Moans and promises half-formed against laughter sobbed through tears that were maybe both of theirs but almost all the salt taste of thrilling relief, whispers without words and her name against his a thousand times, as if they could make one another all the more real with the ageless magic of the words that meant  _him_ and  _her_  and  _them_. It was rough and frantic, but there was nothing brutal even as her nails clutched into his shoulders, as her mouth skimmed and suckled in ways that made his back arch and the heavy oak rattle.

Her legs were locked tight and trembling around his waist, he was inside her now, and it was impossible that something so primal and mindless could be so intimate and transcendent, but it was all of that and more; hot and tight and wet and sweet and better, so much better than his hungriest memories. He was lost in golden hair and green eyes, in parted lips and the exquisite pleasure of having her so completely, and as the rhythm became more jagged, as everything began to clench and build together towards the inevitable, he grabbed her hand in his, the press of the two golden bands in the heated clutch enough to burst the world to pieces in a single, precious rapture.

It was over. He was home.


	28. Epilogue and Author's Notes

**FIVE YEARS LATER: 2nd MAY, 2008**

They had started out as solemn affairs, what most people thought of as 'proper' memorials with wreaths lain, speeches given, and prayers intoned about lives snuffed out too young, but as the years had gone on and those who survived were increasingly old enough to have say in how their friends were remembered, they had taken on a far different feel. By rights, they felt, the annual remembrances should be the victory party their friends never had, an opportunity to give thanks for the lives they had been willing to give for one another, and most of all, they had unanimously decided to make at least  _their_  gathering a wholly closed affair, even if some of them were required to put in an appearance at various, more public obligations.

There would be, they had decided, no more journalists nosing around for reminiscences or 'poignant moments' that made every tear a risk, no more gawkers come to see the people they'd read about in this newspaper or that magazine, no more morbidly curious strangers or posturing do-gooders. Just them. Just Dumbledore's Army at the simple granite column that bore the names of the fallen on the edge of the Hogwarts grounds, quietly tucked away near the gate at the patch of deliberately still-shattered wall where the first of the night's dead had fallen.

At first, their gatherings had rung heavily of tight-lipped defiance, but as they had begun to settle more into their own lives, it had relaxed more and more. True, there had been a retreat into fresh grief the year that Summerby, Utterson, Winchcombe, and Zeller were added to the long list they had so naively thought complete, but there had thankfully been no more since, and the memorials had continued indefatigably towards their current form.

To an outsider, it wouldn't have seemed a memorial at all, but rather a party or cookout of some kind, a score of young families scattered across the lawn on bright blankets, hampers of food spread wide as children ran and played in and out through the adults. It was only if you were to look closer that you would see that all of the adults were within four years of the same age, realize how many were horribly scarred, even missing parts of their bodies entirely. It was only if you listened that you would hear how many of the children's names were echoed on the silently carved stone.

The dead were far from forgotten, but it had become an event for the living, and the spring sunshine was warm and bright as Neville turned to exchange a deep smile with the only other man in their already tight-knit circle who truly understood how priceless it was to see so many of them there. "So how does it feel, being out?"

"Lovely, 'tis, one day parole or no, but ah, Fearless Leader, what I really miss is me wand. Nothin' makes ya appreciate  _Scourgify_ like one o' these." Seamus made a face as he wiped ineffectively at the gooey mess spread across his son's face and shirt, and Neville laughed, drawing his own wand to tap the boy's chubby cheeks with the very spell his friend had bemoaned.

"Just wait until he's a little older," he teased. "This is nothing, but you still should have known better."

"Cake's soft!" Seamus protested, shifting the baby to rest in the crook of one arm as he wagged a finger at him. "Ya shouldn't have had no reason go spittin' it up all o'er, ya shouldn't." The rebuke did not appear to have the desired impact, and Thomas simply replied with an impressive spit bubble before grabbing his father's finger in both hands and jamming it into his mouth, prompting a martyred roll of the blue eyes. "See how well he listens, do ya? Six months old and a bloody terror he is already!"

"Well, he might look like Sue, but he's definitely yours," Neville agreed. "Seriously, though, soft or not, good rule of thumb is that until he's at least got teeth, anything he eats should come from his Mum, one way or another."

One fair eyebrow raised, and Seamus glanced from his friend to where Hannah was attempting to coax Ernie into taking a few steps for Ginny, while Peggy and Trevor appeared to be deeply engrossed in the dissection of their own lunches rather than actually consuming them. "This, then, would be from your vast and encyclopedic knowledge of children, I'm assumin'?"

"Three to one, mate," Neville grinned, then leaned in closer, dropping his voice low to keep his next words between the two of them. Well, technically three, but Thomas was not yet precisely a threat when it came to gossip. "Don't start spreading it around yet, but we're thinking there might be another one in January, too."

"Merlin's tears, can'tcha give the poor girl a break?!" Seamus shook his head in mock scandal, then winced, glaring at his son again as he yanked his finger away. "Mouth like an effin' dragon trap, ya got! I'd like be keepin' all ten o' those, if ya don't mind."

Neville chuckled again, reaching out to take the squirming, dark-haired baby while he dug in the pocket of his robes for a moment before pulling out a pacifier and extending it, along with his wand, to Seamus. "Here. I won't tell if you'll just clean that off for me, and we'll give him something else to gnaw on for a while." There was a pause as the little maneuver was completed, and soon Thomas was working away happily, his eyes already beginning to drift lazily in the first signs of an impending nap.

"Anyway…" Neville had become well accustomed to having to stop and start adult conversations around the demands of small children, and it was no effort at all any more to remember where they had left off. "We're actually stopping after this one, to be honest. We've talked about it, and four's really the number we'd both like. Proper big family, but not like the Smiths or the Weasleys, you know? Hannah doesn't know how Megan copes with five. What about you and Susan? Think you'll have more?"

"Don't really know," he admitted. "Whole thing's still a bit odd, 'tis. We weren't really  _plannin'_ none o' this, but…" Seamus trailed off, looking around them at the clustered families, and his expression was unreadable, his voice soft when he finally continued. "Ya move on, ya do. Ain't nothin' else  _to_ do, or life, it goes on without ya."

He looked down, twisting the end of the ponytail he had allowed to grow long again - though Neville had made a point of never asking why - and a faint, mournful smile quirked one corner of his mouth. "Lookin' 'round here, seein' how everyone's grown up, makes me think I proper did meself o'er, it does. I mean, there's girls here what were still workin' on getting' tits when it all happened, and now they're mothers with kids older than mine and careers and…but then the what ifs, they've this way o' turnin' funny on themselves. Like if I had kept me head, what o' the Diabhal Dubh, and would I've ever found Sue if I weren't servin' me time, and would she've ever moved on, and what o' me _Tommy_ …."

Seamus shook his head, clearly at a loss for words as he brushed the back of his fingers across the soft little head, but no words were needed. A new baby might bring all the world to circle around the mother for the miracle she had created, but there was something inexpressibly astonishing about fatherhood as well, something you couldn't understand unless you had experienced it, and something he was grateful he could now share with his best friend. To know that you had been half of that miracle, to see yourself however strongly or faintly reflected in another human being that held you in such innocent trust when your hand could surround their entire tiny head, their whole body on the length of your forearm…it was at once terrifying and thrilling, and Neville nodded knowingly.

"It all comes together in the end," he said quietly, handing Thomas gently back. "I mean, I've always believed that, but once you've got kids, you  _have_ to. There's got to be some kind of higher plan, because we're all making it up as we go along, but you just can't look at them and –"

"-- Say it's anythin' but 'zactly where ya'd want to be if every bit o' it - tears and all - had been told ya from the –  _t'hell?!_ "

Neville spun, and though it had been years, his reflexes were as sharp as ever as his wand came up along with dozens of others across the grounds, all aimed directly at what had caught not merely Seamus' attention so dramatically. They were birds - two ravens, he could see now - huge and glossy black, plummeting down out of the sky in a near-suicidal Seeker's dive straight for them, and he jerked back as one missed him by inches, the other flapping to a barely-controlled landing at his feet. A scroll of parchment had been tied to one leg, and it lowered its beak to pluck away the cord binding it there, gave a loud caw, and then was gone.

It hadn't taken off again, there had been no flash or crack: its message delivered, the bird had simply stopped  _being_ , and his hands were shaking slightly as he knelt to retrieve the tightly-foiled scroll.

"You too?" He startled at the voice behind him, and Harry was there as he stood, the lightning scar on his brow creased as he frowned, holding out a scroll that was the twin of Neville's own. "Do you suppose we should be worried?"

"Probably just something to do with the anniversary," Neville said with forced confidence, slipping his wand beneath the wax seal to crack it open. "I mean,  _today_  of all days is not a weird time for someone to send something to the two of us, even if the method was a bit…odd."

He unfurled it now, tilting his head curiously as he saw that it wasn't properly a letter, but the top half of what looked like a torn page from a book pasted to the larger parchment. The ink was faded, it looked several years old but not ancient, and his curiosity deepened as he saw the date at the top, written like the rest of it in a thin, spidery, old-fashioned hand that seemed vaguely familiar in a way he couldn't quite place.

_21 March, 1980_

A gasp broke his attempts to decipher the delicate writing, and he looked up just in time to see Harry's knees buckle beneath him, Ron barely managing to catch him before he would have collapsed completely. His face had gone deathly white, and his green eyes were perfect circles of shock as he looked up, holding out his own letter so that Neville could see now that it bore what was unquestionably the bottom half of the same page. " _Dumbledore!"_

"What?!" Ron reached past him, and his own mouth dropped open as he looked at it. "Blimey! That's his, all right! What's he doing sending you and Neville letters from the great beyond?"

"It's not a letter," Neville replied, and now his hands were shaking, he could feel his own face falling pale, and as his eyes skimmed the lines more and more easily as they adjusted to the handwriting, he began to agree that Harry, prematurely or not, had displayed precisely the right reaction. "It's from his diary…it's the day he heard the prophecy, it's…"

He licked his lips, and he couldn't go on, but Hermione was there now, looking over his shoulder, and her hand flew to her mouth with a little gasp that told him she must have reached the same part he had. "Harry, you were  _deliberately chosen_!"

"Is that all?!" Seamus exclaimed, glancing between the two men incredulously, Thomas having somehow managed to fall asleep on his shoulder in the middle of the sudden upheaval. "Ya had us thinkin' it were the end o' the effin' world! We all know he were chosen…coincidence it is with why folk call him 'The Chosen One,' maybe?"

"Maybe so," Hermione conceded, "but according to this, unless Harry's half contains a pretty radical change of mind, it was never  _Riddle_  who chose."

_**THE END** _

This story is dedicated to my grandfather, who always taught me that life can only be taken one day at a time, and if you're never ashamed of who you are or what you believe and always have faith, you'll never need to be ashamed of anything else.

It is also dedicated to  _you_ , the remarkable reader who was willing to step so far beyond the comfort zone of anything resembling a 'normal' Harry Potter fanfiction for some 220,000 words. I dragged you through the underbelly of Belfast, the nightmare of Druim Cett, the Oweynagat and Avalon and back again, twisted you through space and time, and you stuck it out. My proverbial hat is off to you, not to mention that I owe you my thanks, as a story unread is meaningless.

There are, however, several others who must be thanked as well:

VegaBlack, who has been with me on every step of this journey with her honest opinions and insightful understanding of Neville ever since this whole universe was a series of one-shots on . Thank you, you are truly Constance Reader.

Ceirdwenfc, who has put up with endless hours of my authorial whinging and moaning, and who has served as my sounding board and the voice of reason no matter how far I dragged these young men from anything resembling the beaten path. I apologize in advance for every post-it the plot bunnies this has spawned will cost you, and I didn't mean to suck you into another pairing, I swear.

Sarah, who helped me determine how to condense the entire Arthurian metaverse into something cohesive. I still say that you make very Hermione noises when you are in deep geek mode, and I love that we could chat so casually about Tennyson and Brythonic myth.

Supergreak, who talked me down at four in the morning from the episode I had while writing the first battle of Druim Cett. You are a truly good-hearted person, and will be an officer I would be proud to serve under.

Mintcloud, who reminded me that above all power they may have to tell the writer's story, the greatest power of the written word is to make people feel that they are journeying beside the characters, experiencing their joy and pain. The dragon was for you.

J.K. Rowling, for creating the universe that this theoretically spawns from, for originating the characters of Neville and Seamus, as well as so many others, and for providing such a rich inspiration.

The true geniuses on whose shoulders I have stood, however, are nameless: the bards and wandering minstrels, the firelit storytellers who first spun the Dullahan from the night shadows and the Banshee from the cry of the wind. I have plagiarized your unnamed legends shamelessly, but I hope that you know it was done only in respect and love, and isn't, indeed, the essence of what you did to take and build and pass along? I hope that people will seek out more of the Irish myths after reading this, because I assure you, the originals are far richer than the pale references I scattered in my own narrative.

As for the Troubles and everything in the Muggle world of Belfast, I only wish it were fiction. But truth is often just as jarring, and the RHD, the Kimberly Bar, the PIRA, fathers shot execution-style in the bedrooms of Ardoyne and young men outside the nightclubs of Ballynafeigh, schoolgirls awakened to fiery hell and eight year-olds buried...these things were and too often still are real. Like so many conflicts, it is impossible to say at this point which side is truly right or wrong, because both have gone so far beyond any claim of righteousness, but I have done my best to show both the human hearts and inhuman monsters who inhabit this world.

And that sometimes, the truth can be that a man is neither, merely a shadow of the gray, hung between life and death on a noose made of the choices of others unless his own choice is made, the same choice that is powerful and very real magic in all of our hands: the choice not to exist, but to live.

I hope you enjoyed "Sluagh," and I hope you will read again when the story of Neville and the D.A. continues in spring of '09 with the third novel of the DAYD trilogy, "A Peccatis."

_Respectfully Yours_

_Andrew Blake a.k.a. Thanfiction_


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